


Their Nondescript

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cursed!Sam, M/M, Mpreg, Series Spoilers, Wincest - Freeform, graphic birth, thoughts of abortion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 81,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other version of Sam, Dean, and the low-down, good-for-nothing dude who knocked Sam up.  Only this time, they are most certainly not wrestling and just...oh. Okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights to Supernatural and it's characters belong with the CW and Kripke and co.; All rights to "The Witching Hour", the following series, characters found therein belong to Anne Rice. Any subsequent characters involved in the Mayfair's history also belong to Anne Rice. I stand to make no profit from this piece of fiction and I own nothing.  
> Complete - chapter or two posted each day.  
> Beta: The lovely lj user-yahnkehy edited much of this however, I fiddled with it. A lot. All mistakes are mine, framedhim's.  
> Two versions, I will post both: His Nondescript - non-Wincest; Their Nondescript - Wincest.  
> Both are roughly the same on up to Chapter Six, where they deviate relationship-wise as well as with Timestamps.  
> Originally written as a prompt fill in lj's spn_hardcore community.

Sam’s in the best position he can maneuver his untoward body into at the moment. Dean has his back, armed with as many cold wet rags, sterile gauze pads, and that weird nose bugger bulb thing.

As Sam's head slips a little further back towards Dean's shoulder, mind in a bit of an herbal induced haze, he's caught up in the memories of the how's and why's of where they are at the moment. Dean wipes a soothing rag across Sam's forehead, saying something about dopey kid brothers with their goofy smiles and long, flailing limbs and Sam is sailing along now, pretty as picture in his organic happy place. Flashbacks wash bright white over the forefront of his mind, not realizing he's been mumbling. Not until Dean places a steady hand against his rock hard belly and the other palming his right cheek, and ghost whispering in his ear.

"It's ok Sam, c'mon man just go with it."

Sam's suddenly racked, pain breaking through - creating its own special kind of white wash and he's thrown backwards against Dean's chest as the contraction hits, bellyinavicemygod, and he groans low, primal. Even through the deep breathing techniques and herbs and the cool-wet support, the pain's a living thing, causing this need to vocalize everything he's feeling. Dean knows his brother's in pain but the sound pulled out of him, it breaks through even his steadfast exterior, causing an innate need to stop, to pummel and it's to no avail.

Dean tries not to tense, offers ridiculous affirmations in lieu of honest to god taking Sam's place. He would, he has before--here though, it's not his place.

"Dude, that sounded like a wounded animal. Breathe Sam. C'mon, man, breathe and remember your training. You have this hands down. So proud of you."

As the next contraction rips through his torso and takes his breath away, Sam's only thought is that this whole birthing process can fuck off and kiss his manly size ass. And it can take the 6'1" mister "you can do this" affirmation guy, no matter that he's supporting Sam's weight, right the hell with it. That is until the contraction ends and Sam's been through some serious shit before, really, but he's going to cry, like right now.

Big, man-size crying and he's ok with that, truly he is, because this is bunk. He'd like to be a little more intelligent sounding even in his own thoughts but at the moment, all he wants is for Dean to not go anywhere and make it stop. That is until this next wave of, oh-god-not-again, spasms hits and well, the whole world can go fuck off.


	2. Chapter 2

So, he’d like to say it all happened on a hunt, his luck running out in typical Winchester fashion. Truth be told, all Sam had wanted that particular evening was a beer that didn't curdle his stomach and a booth with a view yet still inconspicuous. Maybe his brother there with him to share, maybe not, depended upon whether he and Dean were in the same headspace.

He had to admit, it wouldn't have made or broken his vibe either way. Especially not after the last few days spent stepping over one another just to catch their breath. What is for certain, though, was he’d not been in a caring and sharing mood and that, hell that suited him and Dean just fine.

His brother’s intentions for that night’s festivities were just as simple. Find a bar, find a beer - preferably with something displaying an abundance of cleavage and hips attached to the bottle - and find a pool table.

They'd found just the place in another little backwoods town in upstate New York. Place filled with kind faces, wealth of diner food, and lined in quaint homes decorated in fall colors and raked leaves.

They'd wrapped another hunt during the week to add to their exhaustion--one with a nest of vamps that didn't know to keep out of nice people's homes. It was rude, deadly, and he and Dean had been itching for a case in which they could see results, feel a small sense of accomplishment in their work. The work was exhausting, sure; the process of hacking off heads was gruesome, labor intensive but nothing in comparison to Sam having to endure two days’ worth of Twilight barbs from Dean.

See, the blood would wash off, eventually. Dean's bad puns on the other hand, that crap went on mental replay like a song stuck on loop.

So here they were, another bar with neon signs flashing and an outdoor chalkboard stating, 'Thursday's dart championship canceled'. The booth Sam found was sticky with beer and god knows what else but worth it for the surrounding sight perspective. As soon as his ass hit the naugahyde, a leggy waitress in black micro shorts and a pink wife-beater was in his space, leaning into the opposite side of his booth. 

"And you'll have?"

Quick flash of dimples to ease the night in. "Guinness, on tap. If not, Miller".

"M' kay." A loud _crack-snap_ of gum and the waitress was gone.

Sam ran a hand across his face and placed sore, aching elbows up on the table. Looking around slowly, he eyed locals in the bar milling about, doing nothing in particular, getting lost in their beer and jukebox serenades. There were a few younger college guys playing darts, laughing and shoving in a small circle, keeping to themselves, while a large group of women sat at an extended table closer to the bar. Their hair done up and spritzed, straightened, work outfits and business attire none of which took away from the tired, blue circles under their eyes. A quiet brunette from the group caught his gaze, gave away a shy grin, all nude satin lips and pale complexion and Sam nodded in return.

She was stunning, lines around her eyes crinkled, posture sure and Sam knew, was positive she could teach him a thing or two. However, she wasn't what he was gunning for tonight.

Sam turned his gaze towards the bar and watched a man in khaki pants and a white button down fidget, peeling his wet beer label off into thin papery crumbles. The guy was as nondescript as all the other's in the place, nothing noteworthy from the angle in which he stood. Watching, Sam noticed there wasn't a stereotype one could pinpoint in the man's stance or his outfit. Regardless, Sam kept catching looks out of the corner of his eye, something nondescript giving way to something definitive and desirable about the man. Details that made Sam sit up, take notice such as the man's jet-black hair, shorter than his own and was, in fact, closer to Dean’s spiky cut. The man faced the away, looking towards the bar's front door so Sam didn't have the opportunity to see the his features, frustrating him until he was sidelined by a commotion coming from the back of the bar.

Sam cast a quick look towards the pool table, towards Dean, and then swung his attention right back to the edge of his booth’s table, where fingertips tapped out the cadence of a nameless tune. He’d seen the local move away from the bar out of his periphery but honestly, finding Dean had been more important and to that effect, Sam was about to lift out his seat, hunter instincts firing along his nerves.

The guy cleared his throat with a rasping sound while his fingertips kept up with the _thump thumping_ along the tabletop.

It’d taken a simple _Hey_ and a glance up for Sam to notice what he hadn't been able to earlier. The man was tall, not near as Sam but close, - and a gorgeous blush staining cinnamon colored cheeks. Sam's body betrayed him as he gave a shudder, a worrying doubt creeping in that he should be more in control. It didn't help that his mind was spinning, a careless thought to Dean prompting an obligatory look back to the pool tables and Dean was just fine, thank you very much.  
Using a slight jut of his chin up and down in acknowledgment of the other man’s presence, he managed to reel in his gawking. "Everything all right, man?"

The local didn't bother with words, simply sat down without invitation. It should have left him on edge, intruded upon and unsafe, but instead, Sam shrugged. The worry there, kicking and screaming in the back of his mind, it abated and Sam was left--happy, content. There was no posturing, no aggressive behavior or intent and still, Sam should have been more on edge, wanted to be. Instead, he relaxed as the stranger moved in close, looked at Sam through thick eyelashes and gave an easy smile.

This, this was flirting and that, well, Sam could most definitely deal with that.

He and Dean had had their fair share of hook-ups throughout most of the states in the union but each place offered up varying degrees of tolerance on who was hooking up with whom. If this area held to more traditional values, no one seemed to take much heed, not paying a bit of attention to two men in an open booth, sitting together shoulder to shoulder. The acceptance, or lack of caring honestly, still didn't quell his twitchiness towards the man's proximity. No, that happened as Sam glanced sideways towards the man's face, now in full bar-lit view.

Sam took stock of the man's profile, dramatic chiseled features prominent up close, and when he turned to face him, Sam noted a light, gentle glint in the man's eyes. The look sizzled underneath Sam's skin, did nothing but to tamp down Sam's uneasiness. In fact, Sam was beginning to wonder why it was he wasn't being more generous with descriptions, why he wasn't curling into the stranger--why he didn't stand a goddamned chance against this guy’s charm.

If Sam had realized what was happening, the reason for his fog, the evening's scenario would be drastically different. As it was, he was embarrassed with himself when the man was staring in amusement at his spaced out look. Sam was zeroing in on every movement, the rhythm of the man's fingers had somewhere in the interim turned into the swishing of fingertips circling the torn fabric of the booth’s seat. A flash of promise playing behind chocolate eyes, a steady circling of fingers closing in on his thigh.

***********

They had a routine, abided by it, kept each other grounded even when the world around them turned chaotic; after all, nothing in their lives kept but a frenetic spinning of blood and ash. The routines were ingrained, something not to be messed with such as: Sam will always check the undersides of tables wherever they eat; it's a knee to chewed gum ratio really. Dean'll brush his teeth twice in the a.m. if the flea trap they're staying in has well water; it's a fluoride thing, honestly. These type things help get them through the grind.

Dean's bar routine always involved a set list to make a night kick ass. The checklist for this particular evening had gone something like this: Sam had safely tucked all four limbs into a booth, check. Beer finally in both their hands, check. Pool table and money to hustle, check. Waitress with legs up to the ceiling and full hips - all the better to grip on tight, push/pull of soft flesh under his hands - right on his flank, angling for a tip and maybe a quick toss out back, check. Sam with some guy, check.

Sam with some local guy, being hit on and playing it casual, odd but not problem. Sam was more than capable of socializing and not getting himself into trouble - some of the time.

What wasn't kosher was the fact that the local, he was overstepping, far closer to Sam than Sam would ever allow at first meeting. The light from the bar was crap, but fine enough to spot the iffy goings on, and what was happening was--off. Sam was acting twitchy and then he would visibly calm and Dean can see the back and forth wasn't registering with his brother. The pool cue slid easily through his fingers as Dean finishesd the last shot, not interested in the chase, just wanting the small earnings he'd made and to move on. To move on to overgrown brothers who weren't paying enough attention, who were perhaps drunk and allowing random strangers to climb into their laps.

Dean gaped at the scene openly as his eyes locked onto the dude's fingers tracing a pattern on the seat, inching closer to Sam’s thighs which at present were bunching and bouncing in his faded jeans. No, not check. So not check. Far, far off the reservation of normal Sam behavior and tolerance, check. He ran through the gamut of possible reasons for what was on display, the only plausible one being either the stranger's on a suicide mission or a possible incubus. It wasn't him being paranoid, merely that Sam never let anyone venture inside his personal space except Dean.

It’d taken seven long strides to get across the bar, not that he'd counted or anything, his lips forming a tense line, and his most prevalent thought was who the hell was this guy getting his brother’s nerves rattled. Or not, judging by the dumb look Sam was wearing. And just for the record, did he mention his brother, the 6' 4" hunter? The one who was acting as jittery as a schoolgirl, the set of his jaw flexing then locking. The sound of teeth grinding a signal for as far back as Dean can remember of Sam's tell of apprehension. Only to look dopey a few seconds after.

Dean sat down opposite them, offering nothing more than a grunt for the local pretty boy who, by all accounts, needed to get the fuck away from Sam. Dingy bar in the middle of nowhere, a chance for them to blend in with the background and here Sam was, attracting attention with his…his mojo or whatever the giant dork used to attract people.

There was an air of nonchalant attitude towards Dean's intrusion, a small look of disdain upon the man's face his only tell. It's gone in an instance once Dean leveled him with a pointed glare, one that promised a thorough ass beating and right smack dab here at the table if need be. Hands that were previously maneuvering towards Dean’s brother’s thighs were now laid flat on the table in front of him. So yeah, that’d been pretty damn smart of pretty boy considering Dean was now going for the small knife tucked in his front coat pocket. He was a betting man, and he bet right there and then that he could hit the guy’s pinky dead on if it so much as twitched towards the material of Sam's jacket sleeve.

**********

Sam would later recall two very important thoughts sticking steadfastly during the bar conversation. One, that he was one hundred percent positive that all 6 feet of pure bruising masculinity brushing up against him would be over, under, and most definitely between his thighs and lips tonight.

Two, that Dean Winchester had no clue as to his brother’s occasional foray into men. Not that Dean would have disapproved. In fact, Dean had a voracious ‘live and let sex be part of it’ attitude and if someone’s kinks differed from his, he was rarely one to complain. No, the not knowing was definitely on him for not confiding in Dean about his--varied tastes. And really, wasn't that just spectacular. Yet one more barb in their new and tenuous relationship.

Sam did have viable reasons for not laying his preferences on the line, one of them being that the majority of previous experiences he'd had with men were under strict compliance with Jess’s rules while at Stanford. Jess had a system of sorts, of pre-screening guys Sam had taken an interest in, thereby making it fun, erotic and healthy. She was the first and foremost priority in his life during that time period; a woman who could play, love, and enjoy Sam's choices. Thoroughly.

After Stanford, life on the road with Dean – with his father – proved difficult in finding the same pleasures, didn’t offer Sam the same opportunities he was accustomed at school. There was nothing wrong with enjoying a few manual laborers, farmers, mechanics that frequented the bars he and Dean would find themselves in. Quite the contrary, Sam found that men with calloused hands or a day’s worth of dirt/grease embedded in the lines of their palms tended to not shy away from a man of his size and physique. They saw it as a challenge, a knowing look thrown sideways, careful – always under scrutiny – and Sam, god, he ached for it. Year after year of denial, of backing out of the challenge, against his nature, just to keep a secret and tonight, Sam couldn’t care anymore.

As it stood, it wasn’t a stretch of any sort to know Dean saw this stranger as an immediate threat and if Sam wanted that good and proper fucking he so deserved, then he needed to diffuse the situation like yesterday. Which meant a tight rope act of hastily, quietly, outing himself all while not giving Dean an aneurism. And if Sam’s shoulders hunched inwards due to a flood of tension, he was going to have to deal with it; after all, he didn't think it a problem, Dean being an open-minded kind of guy.

Sam's attention was snagged, briefly, by a shuffled knee which spread the stranger’s legs wide, and despite the present company across from him, Sam’s dick took direct notice. He couldn't wait to get those lithe thighs between his. He wanted to fist a handful of that jet-black hair, guide the man where Sam wanted, see if his neck tasted as good as the perspiration and cologne on it smelled. Sam was betting that the hard jut of cock, outlined through the man's khakis, could take him apart, have him begging. Jesus, Sam thought, it’d been fucking years since he’d been ridden hard, held down, equaled in strength.

With that as a final image, he turned to level the stranger with a knowing look, hoping to the universe that he recognized Sam’s desire for him to follow his lead. It was plain to see the guy knew Dean was an obstacle, his hands placed in as non-threatening manner as possible, flat on the table, body totally free of violent tension. So at ease, in fact, that Sam found himself sliding closer still. A flash of confirmation in his warm brown eyes left Sam hard as nails, ready to cream himself right there in the booth, Dean be damned.

Sam turned to his brother, face lax and reassuring. “Yeah, so listen,” eyebrows furrowing in concentration, “he’s with me, Dean.”

“With you.”

A tilted beer came after the tight response and Sam suddenly mourned the loss of his alcohol, what with Dean’s ninja skills.

“So then, you mean,” Dean’s eyes zeroed in, narrowed, not backing down towards the stranger, “you’re talking what, Sam? Watching the game, hunting some local wildlife, or…I don’t know, dealing with the hand that was about to grab your junk?”

If Sam were a few years younger he‘d have died of embarrassment in reaction to Dean's bluntness. Only, he wasn't, and he understood the direct path, that it was more than just brotherly play. Sam could see how odd a situation this was, sensed the warning signs of something less than desirable about to happen between the three of them and countered. “Dean, look, he’s…" and Sam stopped, cursing as now was the worst moment to not have a name.

Glancing across his shoulder, Sam gave a slight smirk. "Don't suppose you'd go by Random bar guy. I'll need a name for my brother here." It was a kink, the not knowing, and Sam wondered a moment over his sudden lack of inhibition.

“Oh I don’t know Sammy, you’re gonna need a helluva lot more than that if Mr. touchy - feely over there…”

“Dean!” Sam spoke louder than necessary, not wanting to get in a tiff over the specifics of his sex life with his brother. His mood inexplicably lightened though, the local's biceps touching his, shaking a little with a laugh that vibrated on down to where their thighs met and fucking hell. Sam was about two shakes from dying of blue balls.

"Aww, c’mon Sam, we do this every single time. I leave for a second and you’ve gotten yourself in trouble." Dean wasn’t going to back down an inch, his _aww_ not one of pouting, and somewhere inside, somewhere far past the selfish, horny bastard that was front and center, Sam’s insides melted. The protective crap Dean couldn't help on display, and Sam watched him with a smile as Dean tapped the bottom edge of his beer bottle against the table. Sam took a breath, ready to battle the look of pure contempt etched into the crinkles beside Dean’s eyes.

Enough was enough though, and Sam wasn‘t above hissing like the bitch Dean always touted him to be in order to make a solid point. One that stood out, stuck so that Dean was firmly aware of Sam's line in the sand. “Back off a little Dean, it’s not like that this time. There’s no threa...” and he was stopped in his tracks, Dean's coughing reminder to watch what he was saying. "All right, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“It’s David.”

The brothers both took in the man--David--at his interruption.

“So you two came in together and yes, so that you're both aware, I’d assumed you to be friends, not lovers. I suppose I assumed wrong so, I’ll just be leaving." There was the slightest touch of an accent in his words, Sam picking up on a Spanish lilt when then reality hit him in the face, of what the man had just implied.

“Brothers.” In unison, a well-practiced retort, not strange at all. David muttered something quietly in return, khakis squelching against the booth as he slid out to exit. Only to be forced back in place as Sam grabbed hold his bicep. Starting when Dean began, malice lacing his words. "Brothers. And Sam here, he's my concern."

David looked utterly nonplussed and used a respectful tone when he started. “Dean is it?" He leaned back in the booth, allowing Sam to manhandle him into a closer position. “Dean, I have a hunch your _brother's_ concern will be mine as well tonight. His virtue, his well-being, his ass…you know, just for the night. Promise." David gave a wink at the last, and Dean’s eyes popped wide at the uncomfortable topic of Sam's virtue and ass. David continued, “Now whether you‘ll be providing me hands-on help is up to Sam, if he’s up for that level of intimacy. And believe me, it’s not the brother issue for me, it’s the sharing. You see, I’m only asking for one night, with your brother, alone.”

“Holy Shit.” 

David huffed out a sharp laugh, “You two have that ‘in unison’ thing down. I don't know whether to be impressed or change my mind on taking you both.”

Dean scowled at the man, scowled at Sam. He near lost his cool when David began laughing. “You smug douchebag...Seriously, Sam? This? Damn, man. Listen up _Eyes Wide Open_ , we don’t swing that way.” Cocky eyebrows leveled towards Sam and he found himself cowed, horribly silent in the wake. All three men sat quietly, Sam's hand firmly holding onto the sleeve of David's shirt. All Sam wanted was to get laid in as normal a fashion as every other guy but it seemed remote, a distant possibility. The situation was looking bleak, Sam realizing he needed to man up as there were no words left to describe the plane of horrified existence he was currently traipsing around.

He thought it over for a moment, the state of everyone’s concern for his virtue and what an emasculating bit of a head-trip that was. He was floored, watching his older brother get propositioned by his soon to be future fuck. His best friend type of brother who, up until five minutes ago had no clue that Sam was bisexual. Granted, they were Winchesters, never having had a problem finding women to share. The offers were there, thrown in their laps on a regular basis. Dean was the one to shoot them down, every time, said he didn’t like sharing and left it at that. Never a reason to question Sam's tastes in company unless he was teasing.

“Dean, you know, I just think," and Sam made a sharp gesture mid-air as he spoke, “that it would be nice to just talk about this later, yeah? ‘Cause I’m not feeling up to dealing with this right now. And so that everyone at the table is clear on the matter, no Dean, you’re so not invited.“

There it was, on the table, and Dean suddenly knew exactly where his little brother stood on the whole issue. And fuck no, he thought, if he were to fuck this guy, which he wouldn't, Sammy wasn’t invited either. And just like that, a glimmer right out of the sky, perspective. If Sam wanted this, Dean would let him walk away, but this shit was coming back to haunt the little twerp.

“Sam, unless there’s something of a job-related interest,” to which both of them knew Sam would take precautions, Sam nodding his assent and gave a glare as Dean proceeded, “then no, I wouldn't join you. In fact, I’d like the steel wool brand of brain scrubbing, thanks. Seriously, dude. Next time, how about you warn me about your dirty little kinks, Sam. And since this conversation has already veered off anything resembling normal and okay, you, David," Dean was livid, unsure of what the pit of his stomach was going on about, his jaw set in anger, “as per that little offer you thought was so cute. It's like I said, I don’t share.” And with that, Dean started his exit from the booth.

“Oh and hey, Sammy...” Dean couldn't name the emotion, pissed off and not knowing where to lay the blame. He was half-way to the pool tables, realizing he was bitter, bitter and perhaps jealous that Sam was leaving with another man. He was sure he didn't want to study the reason, knowing full well it would bite him in the ass. Tamping down on the surge of it, Dean cocked his head to the side and smiled. “Your bed, not mine. I don't do wet spots.”

Sam flinched, letting slip a near silent “Dean”

“Remember – plenty of lube bro. Engine‘s got to have it.” Dean’s mouth, Dean’s ass still walking and talking towards the back of the bar. The frustration building as he knew Sam would be heading out, getting laid. Possibly fucked. “And prepping the work area, Sammy, always important.”

Sam’s inner five year old was no longer screaming. Nope, had she not passed out from the dread two minutes ago, Sam would have locked her up towards the non-knowing portion of his mental imagery ages ago. At this point Sam was simply hurling mental obscenities towards his big brother. Sam had the floor so to speak, yet it was David who took the lead, the smaller man quick to stand, offering a nod for Sam to follow.

“My truck.” Sam watched the muscles of David’s back shape and move under his dress shirt as he shouldered through a small crowd near the entrance to the bar.

“Okay, about that, motel’s only a few streets over so we can walk.”

“Hm, yeah about that, Sam. I seem to recall telling your bodyguard/pimp back there that you were in my care for the evening. This includes getting all big boys home safe and sound. Seeing as I’d stopped drinking ages ago and that I like to have an out for any situation I find myself in, we’re taking my truck. You ready or do you need a moment to get your butch on, baby boy, because I have to tell ya, I get it. You're not a fem guy, point received. I need you to work with me a little here. No more mental freak-outs or I leave you two alone to work out all that non-sharing big brother's so adamantly denying."

Sam is not, in fact, fem. He's never tried to make a deliberate show of being overly masculine but his stature lends itself in that direction. All that said, he's tired of being picked apart, figured out, and he's more than sick of being pushed around. He smacked his knee, not paying attention, on the table’s corner, and it sent an electrical zing shooting straight down his leg. Wincing, he reached out to rub the sore spot. Looking up through his bangs, he caught sight of David tucking his lower lip under his top teeth, staring intently at Sam’s massaging hand.

Sam noticed. Blew off the attention. “Yeah, agreed. I think. You know, I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore. I just want to get back to the room, all right? Long as we get there in one piece.” Sam rose and waved David on ahead, taking a sneak peak back to where Dean stood watch at the tables. Nods from both men, a look from his older brother towards the cell phone in his hands and with both nodding again, Sam was turning, following David out of the bar.


	3. Chapter 3

It was direct. A no nonsense, let’s get this shit taken care of pronto, dirty whore hook-up kind of conversation and it probably sounded like the world’s worst foreplay ever. Sam didn't want to waste what sparse amount of time he was going to have on the small stuff. Time was going to play a huge factor tonight considering Dean had never told him the plans for the rest of his evening and it made sense to eliminate any confusion by planning ahead. He stopped, muttered obscenities as he realized he was that guy, the organized sex guy - the one with the extra supplies and the spare bottles of lube and the tissues.

David watches Sam's expression turn inwards, internalizing, the young man holding back. A hunter, a man like Sam, not lacking with issues in his life, David was sure Sam was overthinking what was about to transpire.

“I’m not a bottom Sam, period. I know the size difference between us seems--un poco apagado. A little off, non?" At this, David’s eyes cut over to where Sam is spread out in his passenger seat, relaxed and eyeing him with curiosity. “Bueno, más que un poco. More than a little, which I can promise won‘t mean much after I'm finished with you.” David keeps his grin in check, watching as Sam shifts slightly, seeming to try and ease the hard line outlined in his jeans.

Sam has been fairly unconcerned with that part of the equation. “No problem, I don’t usually top. I mean, I have. It's not a big deal for me, switching it up, but no, that’s fine." David was nodding, waiting for him to continue. “So…I have plenty of supplies back at our room. Rules I’d like to play by tonight are fairly tame. No bareback, and I don’t do bondage. I’m game for a lot of kinks, but I don’t want to have to use a safe-word tonight, all right?"

David's smile lights up, happy with his assumption of the man next to him being forthright, “Nice thing then, that we’re on the same page. I am a little sad about not getting to spank that ass of yours, but I’m not complaining." Two seconds later the truck gives a slight lurch as they speed towards the motel.

Sam fights the urge to fidget, lets himself get lost in his views on having vanilla sex, anything to get his mind off the need to undo David's kahkis, jack the guy off while he drives. He's not adverse to giving road head but he calms, thinking on the no-frills sex he's about to have. Boring as hell. You get in, you get off, and everyone leaves sated and unmarked. It’s never mind blowing for Sam, doesn't come close to what his preferred methods range. For tonight though, it’ll have to do.

David pulls into the motel parking lot, Sam pointing to the room so that they park in front. There's an, unspoken moment between the two men, sighs coming from both in a release of adrenaline rather than annoyance. Sam's out the door, walking in front of the truck, and increasingly aware of David's locked stare on his backside, his dick approving of him feeling like prey. He tells himself he's not shaking, denies it even, and at this particular point in time, Sam just hopes to open the motel door without creaming himself. The locked door proves to be an unfathomable obstacle in his getting laid, the key wobbling in his fingers as his blood flow centers down south. In all fairness, he muses, he doesn't normally have David wrapped around him from behind, pressing him into said door. The strangers fingers tighten in his hair, pulling his head back while dry lips and sharp teeth roam over Sam’s nape, causing him to shiver from tip to toe.

While the one hand rests in his hair, the other snakes around to Sam’s abs, sliding down towards his groin, cupping his sac through his jeans. And then it's not simply cupping--there's an incredible bout of rolling…lifting…squeezing his balls a touch south of too hard. All Sam can muster, his mind shutting down any other stimuli (hunter's instinct screaming in the background...warnings, alarms he's not quite able to focus on) and it's all splendid.

He manages to eventually jiggle the doorknob open, stumbling forward into the dark room with David still wrapped around him. He hears David's foot catch the door, a loud kick and a grunt and it's shut. Sam makes to say something, anything, feels legs nudging him forward. He gets it, no further hints required, no objecting. He lands stomach down, ass up on the queen-sized bed, stunned breath punched out while David takes full advantage of the new position by moving behind and between Sam’s thighs.

“Too many clothes, have to get rid of all these ridiculous layers covering you, Sam. Nothing in the way of your back," Sam's mind interrupts at the feel of David licking, wet-hot, across his lower back, "your chest," and the slow slide of tongue makes him tremble, "that sweet, flat belly of yours." Large hands, delicate despite their size, work quickly. Sam lifts as his layers of shirts are being rucked up and off. Motions blur together and Sam, he has no idea how to gain control what with the rush of blood spilling away from his brain. It's no help that David grabs him by the hips, sinking his fingers firmly in place, pulling Sam’s ass further in the air nice and snug against his cock. Sam says good-bye to his control; it's an idea, a wisp of want compared to the needy ache slithering down his spine.

“Shit.”

David gives a soft laugh until Sam wriggles, friction causing him to sink his chin to his chest and groan. It takes a massive effort to lift his head and lean over the taller man’s arched form, for him to nestle his mouth up tight to Sam’s ear. “Sam...” hips rocking, David begins a wicked rhythm, riding his dick up and down the seamed stitching covering Sam's ass.

Sam mutters, gives an _ungh_ before he speaks. “What…what?”

“Sam. Sammy.” Teeth scrape away a jarring word and a hand releases from Sam’s hip, reaching around in a delicious drag across his nipples. His mind echos with, oh god...yes, please, and his chest shudders as his dick has always been hardwired straight to the razor sharp nubs. Sam’s leaking in his jeans. He'd like to not be in jeans. He'd like the cock currently riding his ass to be in his ass and he pauses to wonder on why that wasn't happening right then.

“Yeah, yeah, just…keep…right there, David. Don‘t stop moving, dude.”

Sam tries for intelligent but at present, he's more concerned with his jean snap being popped, beefy hands grabbing and maneuvering his junk. Speech escapes him as thick fingers deftly pull his cock free from his boxer briefs, tugging and milking and the white noise he hears is new, but he can't find it in himself to worry.

“Sammy?”

It’s all Sam can formulate, a question of why there is talking and the screech of chalk on blackboard hearing a name. Why this stranger can't simply stay silent, " _Shhhh_ , David. Don’t do that. I…,” a snag of teeth hooking between his neck and shoulder muscle does nothing to make Sam forget the correction. “Fuckin' hell dude, ow!”

David smiles broadly against the reddened, indented skin and sits upright, closed fists massaging their way down Sam’s back. He revels in the sheen of sweat starting to form and he bucks hard into the firm ass before him, popping the button to his own pants. “Not sorry about the bite, Sammy, although I am sorry it wasn't earlier. How I would have adored an eyeful of marked skin para el hermano mayor.” David gauges for a reaction, and is not disappointed when Sam's form stiffens with tension.

That nickname jars him, snaps Sam alert enough to protest. The name, Sammy, along with mentioning Dean was inexcusable. “David. The hell...fuck...don’t be a bitch. Seriously, one guy. He calls me that and there's no...it's not metal in my ears. You..." and Sam stops with a grunt as David jerks him wrong, fast and not enough pressure, "…yeah, harder around the tip. You met, pissing contest. It's done." David delivers the twist he needs. "Oh god...can we not talk about my brother at this particular moment?”

David is more and more amused, amazed the youngest Winchester is still able to issue orders, considering. "Pushy bottom aren't we?" With that, he delivers a smart crack against Sam's backside. Sam tosses the man a hardened glare from over his shoulder and David would laugh if it weren’t for the piece of lead trying to burst through his khakis. He's taking his time, reveling in riling Sam up nice and slow, just how he needs him to be. David has fabulous plans for Sam, with no doubt he personally won't be around to see to fruition. Given the Winchesters' reputations for a spot on record of putting bad things down to pasture, David knows he doesn't stand a chance in hell in coming out of this unscathed. Funny, seeing as hell is exactly where he’ll be heading when all is said and done.

His attention snaps back to the present, Sam sounding out frustrated little grunts concerning what David assumes is a lack of attention on Sam's ass. He heeds to the younger man’s urges, and yes, Sam is much younger - centuries at the least - and quickens his strokes. Straining to reach the mangled nightstand, David makes a dramatic show of pulling out a small bottle of lube and foil packets. Not that the latter will matter. He's had eons of practice perfecting the nifty trick he'll be playing tonight. The elder male isn't performing out of malice as he cares for the boy. He's honestly curious as to the outcome, wonders what the the hunter will do with the reward David is about to bestow.

David wants to relish this event, savor every step, every moment the boy crumbles further, and he starts by appeasing his libido. Sam may not be overly concerned with how far down his jeans go but David--he gets off on watching his fill of who he's about to claim. He grabs the waist bands of both Sam's denim and boxer briefs and tugs, impatient to have him bare. With another hard swat to the gorgeous cheeks on display, he barks out a laugh. "You want it babe, you'll have to help me." 

Sam's gone, certain that if he looked down he'd see the tip of his dick in various shades of purples and reds, and his brain is supplying him with terms only a rent boy would know. It's all he can manage to shift, allowing for David to yank the jeans off and throw them somewhere across the room. Wherever. As far as he's concerned, shredded right off his body would have been a viable option. David's next move causes him to yelp as both of his arms wrap around Sam's chest, lifting him up, arms off the bed, and back towards David's chest.

David's hand roam, explore the planes of chest, mapping out grooves too damn sexy to ignore, and his brain can't catch up with his actions. Each touch has him learning the intricacies of Sam's gasps – earthy, guttural sounds pushed out as he plays an inch south of Sam's hip, drawing a fingertip up his entire side. Commits to memory how in keeping one hand splayed over Sam's entire groin, cupping the root of his shaft and manipulating the sack below.... how it makes Sam keen softly, tilting his hips into David's hands as he reclines his head on David's shoulder. There's so much male physique wrapped in his arms that David is floored, suddenly acutely aware of his own length’s neglect. He craves the tease, desires the young hunter to shatter in his arms. David wants to keep the boy tucked firmly against his chest, underneath him begging where he'll willingly fall apart with him.

David ceases the roving, allows one hand to grab hold of Sam's hair while the other he places flat against the dip of Sam's lower back and pushes. Sam's on board with this plan, falling forward, elbows out, arms and hands rested under his forehead. The position allows Sam to look between his legs where he startles to see he missed David undressing. He sees his own shaft hang heavily, tip leaking a string of precum onto the sheets below. He waits and rocks back and forth, watching from the same angle as David reaches over to the bottle of lube and snicks open the cap. His leg muscles are jumpy, itchy from sweat clinging to the hairs there, all golden skin strikingly pale in comparison to David's body.

David may be an inch shorter in stature but he is not lacking in muscle definition, and judging from what's been riding the seam of his cheeks, proportionate. Sam knows, hates, that a good deal of prep is in order. Kinks be damned, Sam has never enjoyed nor requested in any scene the lack of lube. He'll demand extra if need be, lust ridden or not, and won't allow a partner to skimp on stretching. He doesn't enjoy the drag of a cock buried in him if only opened with spit. Nor does the heightened burn and pain of being too tight do anything for him getting off. There's no issue here though, David shushing him. "I've got you. Won't hurt you, Sam."

David tries not to fall apart, hands trembling as he coats two fingers. While he doesn't plan on hurting Sam, his body's past the point of a long, slow stretch for the pucker displayed obscenely before him if, if he doesn't get on with it. He watches Sam look between his legs and makes a show of wrapping one hand firmly around the hanging shaft, squeezing and milking. Sam's hips stutter, "Jesus..c'mon, c'mon...not gonna last."

The words spur him on, taking his time until he's two well-lubed fingers in, last knuckle deep. He twists and pries the ring pliant, falling across Sam's back, other hand stilling on Sam's dick. His mouth is pressed open against the rigid shoulder muscles beneath him. "So handsome, utterly broken. So slutty for me, Sam. I want to play a little game. Would you like that, mi amor?"

Sam's breath hitches beautifully as a third finger stretches past his hole's ring of muscle. David sinks it to the hilt with the first two, easing the tight of the inner walls and playfully nudging Sam's prostate. David's hold allows for only enough wriggle room, Sam squirming forward and back. Sam's replies are whispers, wisps. "Games? What? So good...please oh god, please, please move." Sam isn't firing on all cylinders now, his focus narrowed so tightly to pleasure it's almost nauseating, his abs clenched frozen. He fucks back onto David's hand, knowing for certain he's going to implode, that it isn't enough and that David should know this.

David's going to slip free, fairly certain Sam's too far-gone to not hear the condom foil crinkle. He's punch drunk in love with the cry just shy of pain when he crooks his fingers on the way out of Sam's body; the nasty hiss he's rewarded when he stops the tips of his fingers dead center in the tightest knot of Sam's hole and scissors them wide. Rewarded with a litany of curses as he scrapes over the pink skin as he finally pulls free.

Sam isn't given more than a momentary feel of too empty before David lines up. It's not that he loves pain, not that he wants to walk with a limp for the next week; it's a matter of death by blue balls if David isn't fucking into him immediately. Without warning, Sam rocks back, sinking his stranger's dick past the initial resistance.

David's teeth grit as he yells out in protest, managing through a minor miracle to restrain his hips in lock down. He's afraid Sam's hurt himself, judging by the pained curve of the hunter's back. He's afraid if he moves, he'll orgasm too soon, barely inside.

Sam once again refuses to stay still, rocking forward so that David is only just lodged inside and shoving back roughly. He knows his body, lets the stretch become his entire universe. If he were outside the fog, mind muggy with it, he'd remember he doesn't enjoy this, that he's never been a size queen. Even with the careful prep, Sam's flooded with pain - unaccustomed and more than a little overwhelmed. Not understanding, too fuzzy, he thinks that maybe whatever David has done, that perhaps he's been converted. 

Four. Five. Six lunges and David is as far in as he can fit, hips snugged firm against the hunter's cheeks. It's almost not enough, his own mind starting to feel the same effect as Sam. He tightens his grip, lifts Sam's lower half in the air, closer to nudge inside further. Impossible, as there's nowhere left to go. Sam's channel is deliciously tight, and David realizes he won't last. Time spent prepping mixes with Sam's pheromones, zipping haywire and chaotic through every one of his nerves. The spell he'd cast earlier that evening courses through every fiber of Sam’s being, connects him to the man under him. It cajoles David forward, thrusts sporadic, leaves him wondering vaguely if he could bury in balls deep as well.

"Just...oh my god, need a moment," and Sam's whimpering, his voice wrecked. Every inch of his skin is burning up, a heated pain radiating from where he’s connected, setting up a slow burn in his belly.

David stills his thrusts long enough to allow Sam a breather. He pulls out slowly this time, canting up and rubbing the tip of his dick around the puffy hole. A moment later he's throwing his head back, lining up. There, he thinks. He’s buried deep and working Sam viciously, relishing the grunts; awed in the way the boy's body is being shoved, thrust by thrust, up the bed. David's working on a short leash, orgasm screaming up his spine as he simpers Sam's name. A prayer to the universe, "Thank you...can give you this. Give you both," a communion to the core of the Earth.

Sam doesn't register, can’t compute the chants - reciting, his mind offers. The sense of pleasure has him quivering and he's straddling the edge. There's a haze, a bizarre ethereal light but the edges are muted as the a fire in his belly grows brighter. His dick pulses, no release even as each slam forward gives friction against the top sheet. Groggy, that's the word, and he's slurring slightly, "David, what? Please." He doesn't even know what he's begging for. David's rhythm is brutal, pushing Sam up off his arms and toppling him forward towards the headboard. The bed shakes beneath them, rocking from the thrusts, from Sam's body vibrating.

David hears begging, braces one arm around him as he lies flush on top of Sam. He takes Sam's length in his other hand, slick with sweat and precum, enough to jerk Sam off in time to his erratic movements. He's chasing the end for both of them, making another adjustment in tightness around Sam's dick when their worlds spin out of control.

And so it is, as Sam's body locks tight, crippled by the blinding force of his orgasm as David cries out in unison, when Sam faintly registers heat, slick and wet, flow deep in him. And the fire in his belly explodes, a supernova behind his lids and beneath his abs. And so it is, the elder witch grabs hold of the younger Winchester's body in support, keeps the boy-man-pinned to his chest as he rolls them to their side, whispering incantations of protection and prayers of forgiveness; Sam's body quakes from the ritual's completion, unconscious and unknowing. David's whispers turn through Sam's mind, quieting him and giving him peace - unlocking Sam's body down to his very DNA.

Whispers.

Soothing.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean is done with it all, all encompassing life as it is, and he sings this with emphasis. It’s a jaunty little tune he’s been tossing around in his head since, oh, sun o’clock this a.m. Not enough 80’s heavy metal in the world could replace such a happy little ditty. He is currently toting two coffees, four donuts, and some new veggie egg white with cheese thing for Sleeping Beauty back at the motel. The the damn sandwich does, of course, stink up his baby.

Dean’s pissed at the offending food, grimacing and hiking his sunglasses higher up his nose; the smell akin to a hen passing gas after eating roasted peppers, and then slapped some burnt cheese on top for fun. He hums the song he's just made up, slurping down his bitter coffee and keeping an eye out for places to pull over in case the smell of Sam’s veggie bomb overwhelms and he has to hork. Can’t sully his girl now can he? he muses.

He parks outside the room, still humming an obnoxious version of his song he calls _Doom, Super Doom, and Mega Doom_. This will soon be sung to the girl formerly known as Sam, because it truly is Sam’s new theme song. He walks, providing intermission as he stalls outside the motel door, pausing by way of prayer, "Please, universe that so likes to shaft me hard, for once, let the shafting be soft…cuddly even." He is doing so as, at present, Sam - the princess of all things grumpy and gassy, has been PMSing for the last two months.

Yeah. That's a mighty sexist statement, he thinks, but people just had no freaking idea. He’s endured two months of Sam waking and puking his guts out only to then glare at Dean like he'd spiked Sam's tofu. "S'yeah. As if." He thumps his head against the door frame, reminding himself that, okay, there was that one time, but really?

And the gas is beyond description. Otherworldly. Sammy’s never been a lightweight when it comes to bodily expulsions but these last few weeks have been a whole tier of methane meltdown. Dean’s been convinced on more than one occasion that Sam had melted a hole straight through his baby’s leather.

Adding to these indignities, one of his personal favorites, is the belly trauma. He’d been teasing ‘our lady of unholy mood swings’ on up until two days ago, ending abruptly after the incident. Forever known now as ‘the day Dean learned how truly small a sense of humor Sam possessed. Sam’s retribution to Dean’s barbs involved a nightmarish trick involving a pickled pig’s foot, Dean’s toothbrush, and a much beloved concert t-shirt. Things didn’t end well that day for either of them.

Dean can admit that he’s had more than his fair share of good time of poking and prodding and rubbing Sam’s new belly. It's bizarre, he thinks, all that washboard musculature that Sam has systematically maintained since puberty, now with a healthy helping of marshmallow fluff. So bizarre that Dean has found himself casually touching once in a great while. While Sam sleeps. So, okay, he's beginning to understand that the curved addition might be his new addiction. Really, and he shuffles from foot to foot thinking and looking like a total moron staring at his motel room's number, he's been displaying some serious pervy behavior towards his brother. And Dean is now even less inclined to open the room's door.

He stands there, nodding to a maid as she walks past with a smirk on her face, like Dean's doing penance outside his own room. He blinks down, taking in all the outlandish behavior, Sammy's new physique and his constant sickness. Considers the total exhaustion that never goes away. Sam hasn’t slept this much since he was fifteen. It took a lot of energy to sprout all that flouncy hair, to grow miles of limbs, and a shiny new libido. Truth is, Sam's quiet belies his horniness. Dean's little brother, when he puts his mind to it, can score tail with more ease than Dean ever has. He thinks on Sam's libido now, a symptom he can actually tally. He's seen no indication of hands-on relief and knows the guy hasn’t had anyone in his bed since New York.

It strikes him, standing outside and listening to the whir of a/c and highway traffic, that all the issues combined make for a crazy prognosis. That if Sam really were a Samantha, Dean would have to physically cart his sibling off to the nearest Planned Parenthood, ASAP. Sam’s not pregnant though, because he’s a guy, always been a guy despite Dean's best ribbings. Dudes who were born dudes don't get pregnant unless it's in the fictional work off some housewife’s fantasy journal. It's crazy, lunatic ramblings of old, crusty hunters looking to scare newbie grunts. The stuff of hoodoo curses. Supernatural occurrence that would never apply to Sam and himself. Because he and Sam don't ever get tangled up in oddball cases.

Ever. No, he thinks, they lead normal lives where no one ever experience anything out of the ordinary, living out of motels….hunting the kinds of creatures seen in nightmares. Drinking demon blood. Restarting epic battles between heaven and hell. Ending the apocalypse and having pizza with Death.

Dean feels sick. He knows he’s gone ghostly pale, the half a donut he’s eating falls out, mostly because he’s too stunned to close his mouth. The key to the room is in the lock, shaking, mostly due to the tremors wracking his frame.

And as the door to the room swings wide, Dean steps across the salt line to the head tune of ’Mega Doom’ the exact same moment as Sam emerging from the bathroom, his brother hunched in on himself. Dean’s formed superhero laser eyes because all he can see is the stick Sam’s holding in a vice grip, white plastic easily recognizable to any guy who’s ever had a scare – with a girl. He trains his new occular weapons onto Sam's face, with his red-rimmed eyes and pink stained cheeks.

And just, _no fucking way_.

Sam coughs out a wounded sound. “Dean.”

Dean chokes out in kind. “Holy shit, Sammy.”

+

August 26th 0845 Upstate New York

The light filtering in through the motel window should not be worming its way through Sam eyelids. There’s ample blanket to curl up into so there shouldn't be any worries. There’s no one side or the other on his bed he prefers because Sam has conquered the whole of it. He’s just so damn comfortable. It’s in this vein that Sam goes to stretch from tip to toe. It’s in the start of this stretch that Sam is fairly certain his whole body is marked black and blue.

His gasp echoes throughout the room and he curls back into himself as his face burrows into the pillow closest him. Sam’s not big on sniffing anything found in the motels they stay in but a clean, nondescript scent welcomes him, assures him it can't be too terribly bad. A few hours later, Dean wakes him from a deep sleep with Journey blaring on the radio and loudly proclaims that he has officially found the pie that birthed all other pie recipes.

“Swear to god Sam, the waitress was blonde, 5’10 and stacked and even she didn’t stand a chance next to the homemade apple pie.”

Sam is too sleep fogged - could toss in post-sex bliss as well - to do more than huff out a laugh. All he needs now is to pee and to make that happen, he's got to get out of bed, which sucks royally. One foot lands on the floor, and as Dean plops his butt on the edge of his own bed, Sam manages to hoist the rest of his body up and off.

There's the nakedness but he couldn't give a damn about whether his junk is swinging so he moves, limps ungainly towards the bathroom. An odd feeling washes over him and he turns, catches sight of Dean, foot tapping, fixating on the nightstand by Sam’s bed, face pinched. Immediately aware, concerned, he spins, sees there's a half-empty bottle of lube right by the lamp and a roll of condoms next to the motel phone.

A small roll of unopened foil packets, condoms sitting there, mocking him.

The effect is immediate, Sam spitting out, “Son of a bitch!”

He'd no reason, he can’t, his body heaves in anger because he'd seen the condoms come out of the drawer and well, he’s not leaking and cum sticky. David must have cleaned him up and great, just fucking great. That lying piece of ... he stops that tirade because Sam's a firm believer in personal responsibility after all the shit he's put Dean through, realizes he's a stupid moron – tricked - who needs to be tested immediately.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Dean, fists balled and punching into his legs, legs spread, and he's angrier than Sam’s seen in over a year. Dean is staring at the unused condoms and then he point blank focuses on Sam’s bare ass.

Dean's voice isn't much louder than a whisper, when he grinds out, “You stupid sonuvabitch. Damn it, Sam.”

There’s a hot shower waiting and Sam is too mortified, bone-deep exhaustion keeping him from a knockdown, drag-out fight. “Yeah. Yeah I am Dean.”

 

September 16th 0545

There’s a waterfall right next to the cabana Sam’s lounging in and instead of relaxing, all he can think of is the ache in his groin, the fish he ate at the bonfire last night. There’s pixie dust glittering off the mountainside and there’s no doubt the pixies are mocking his thirst when they flitter by, pouring fresh lemonade into chilled tumblers. The sound of the liquid reverberates around him as it sloshes and splashes….

Sam’s eyes fly open as his bladder screams at him to get the hell up now. What’s not ok with this scenario is the way in which his stomach protests, churns and quite possibly bucks. Now, at the ass crack of dawn, Sam has to make a ridiculous executive decision - pee or puke first.

Pee, oh god pee, because if Sam pukes he’s going to be standing in an inch deep puddle of piss. Wait, his mind tries to fix the situation as he scrambles for the hotel’s grimy bathroom, use the wastebasket. He has a split second to think ‘bastards, of course there's no wastebasket’, before he urinates, shakes his prick, flushes, and is vomiting no sooner than when the bowl fills.

Two minutes later, he lays his head gently on the side of the tub in perfect proximity to the toilet; wants the smallest amount of movement for what is most definitely going to be round two. Sam can hear the faint shuffle of 100 thread-count sheets as Dean wakes, groans, then belches, gives the semblance of something normal.

With another groan, Dean calls out. “Sammy?”

"Unnn", Sam’s smells vile, his chest is sore and his throat hurts from stomach acid, “here,” he clears some phlegm, “in here Dean.”

The padding indicates an approach, and the following quiet must mean Dean’s taking in the sight. “Gross, dude, what’d you eat? Can't hold your beers now, Samantha?” The scuffle of feet across the room’s threadbare, filthy carpet, sound of a duffle being rummaged through and Dean comes back, “I’ll go out, greasy food’ll do you some good, Jesus, didn’t know you drank that much.”

September 30th 2241

Sam is getting ready to turn in, the shower washing away another night’s worth of grave dirt mixed with the stink of horking up the day’s lunch special. His stomach issues have only increased and he’s been surprised by the gentle manner in which Dean treats him. Logically, he knows Dean does this because puking is on a secret top ten list of horrors Dean cannot deal with. Sam now knows the feeling, used to empathize and daydreams of the good ol’ days when not all his meals were greeting him twice.

He’s just pulled a fresh t-shirt on, beyond thrilled to climb into bed, when the itching starts. The skin across his chest feels as if it's pulling, accommodating for a growth spurt that he's not going through as he's a grown man. Grown men don't spurt up, they expand in weight and Sam's not only strict in his eating and workouts, he can't keep enough down for that to make any kind of sense. The pulling is accompanied by an odd full feeling in his pecs. Sam’s not sure of anything his body is doing lately, he’s been one constant thrum of aches and pains, so what’s a little itching?

 

September 30th 2314

There’s darkness under Sam’s covers where he can pretend to separate from his symptoms, rare disease, STD, or whatever it is that David’s given him, despite all the free clinic tests being negative. He's very easily been able to track the issues, straight on back to his unfortunate evening with the mystery man. He scratches absently across his chest and somewhere along the way, his hips and abs join in on the discomfort. Apparently, his body parts have jealousy issues, and he yells, rips his shirt off and scrapes against tight, hot skin. Dean rolls over, hand on the weapon beneath his pillow, groggily bleats out an, “y’kay, Sam? The hell is goin on?”

Sam would like to know as well.

October 1st 0714

“Dean please leave me alone. Don't make me have to hurt you.”

There's a pause, long enough that Dean can blink innocently and then he snorts, half amused with the scene unfolding on the opposite bed. Honestly, he's not joking when he says he's more than a little concerned with Sam's skin condition, thinks maybe the guy got bit by bed bugs considering the shit places they sleep.

“C’mon, Sam. You’ve scratched so hard there's marks. It's the lotion dad used on us when we were kids. Nothing weird. Look it--quit being an idiot and let me help you.” It works as well as he'd thought it would, Sam giving him no love.

“Dean, so help me god,” Sam's teeth are ground so tight his jaw twitches, “you make one move towards my stomach, I will cut you.”

Exasperation colors Dean's face and he can't help staring at his brother, disbelieving.

Sam's having none of that, not overly worried on how insane he sounds when he mutters and lies back down, turning his back to Dean's glares.

October 14th 1137

They head north. It's a mind numbing drive, hours that are testing both men's patience. Sam has had to ask twice in a short span of three hours for Dean to pull over. Kneeling by the side of a ditch, retching on styrofoam litter and hoping like mad the wet spot spreading across his knees, soaking the denim, isn't dog piss. Sam hates this fucking life on a decent day so today is shit--today is salt in the wound. He hates roadside diners with their crappy Greek salads; hates working cases in the south, suffering hot weather spikes during a perfectly good crisp, fall day; and he can't stand locals who refuse to shut up about the weather. Sam is pretty sure there is a special room in hell for persons who don’t turn their stereos down at stoplights and that there's another designed specifically for non-turn signal using drivers.

Sam also hates the veggie taco he ate four exits ago. The need to bring it up hits him, makes him want to cry as mucus slicks his throat, and he waves frantically to Dean. Dean cuts his eyes in confusion, unsure what flappy hands have to do with anything until he gets a nice long look at Sam's face--ashen coloring greets him and his mind is screaming, no, absofuckinglutely no way.

“Oh hell no, Sam. Not in baby girl!”

Sam really doesn't want to puke but the bile's rising, and he knows Dean's not going to make it to the side of the road before he blows. He mentally prepares himself that he's going to throw up on the floorboards of Dean’s life partner and instead, he simultaneously belches and passes gas.

Loudly.

The brothers stare slack jawed at one another for a few seconds, Dean trying desperately not to laugh hysterically and set the guy off. That is until the very next second, when the smell happens. Now, now Sam has to puke. His ass has actually caused him to become physically ill. Dean is so offended he threatens Sam with auto terms such as, “Replacement leather for the seats,” only Sam tunes the words into a babbling nonsense. A second bubble cords through his intestines, and he finds that even clinching can’t stop the gas.

Sam quickly finds he has a new puking buddy on the side of the deserted country road.

October 22nd 1833

Sam is sick of Dean, sick of every move the other man makes, especially in regards to Sam's physical person. His brother won't quit his attempts to fondle (jokingly) Sam's belly. Yep, for some reason he’s acquired a teeny, tiny gut and Dean is obsessed. They’re not talking at the moment because Dean’s still hurt over the “incident” but Sam had warned him. Sam was sick, he was tired, he was stinky, and he couldn’t stand the feel of fabric against his nipples, the material rubbing them raw. He’s realized that he probably is dying. It’s karmic, it’s awful. It’s Dean hovering and never leaving his side.

October 24th 0420

They hole up in a hotel just outside of Wilkes-Barre off 81, and it's the lap of luxury as far as either hunter is concerned. The room is cheap as hell, some weird discount the clerk droned on about, and it has heat and two queens and a water heater that won't quit. Dean shoves Sam towards the shower, collapsing in a giant pile, boots on his feet and the SyFy channel on tv. Sam near buckles under the amazing water pressure, shower head setting number four getting the water smacking against his neck as he leans his head back. The bathroom fills with the scent of Bengay thanks to the Eucalyptus shower gel he's taken to using, heating throbbing calves and pecs and thighs, and he's fattening up. Surprising as it is, Sam's not been in the mood for so long he's relishing the feeling and runs the washcloth over the head of his dick, soaping up his balls. Around, and eventually behind and he thinks, why the hell not--the water isn't giving up and Dean's comfortable enough to not want to move--so he places his right hand on the tiled wall, a squelch as his fingers find purchase. The infuriating extra padding around his middle isn't too much to hinder but it's easier, easier to prop his left foot on the lip of the tub. His fingers are slick with shower gel and, ignoring his length, he stretches to reach behind his balls. Pressing in and moving further back has him breathing heavy, his arms trembling with how good he feels. It's half an inch back when there's something not right, something that locks him up. There's a fissure. Only, it's not anything he's every felt before--his subconscious rebels and reminds him that that is entirely untrue; in fact, if he would care to recall those splendid memories of fingering Jessica. The memories come unbidden, flashing as he bring his fingers up to inspect only there's no blood there. Not like there would be if this was any typical sore or wound. And Sam may be ill but he can damn well remember if he'd been infected or wounded behind his nuts. He near loses his footing tearing the shower curtain aside so that he can grab the small mirror in his shaving kit. In order to see clearly he spreads his legs, keeping the one propped up, and he positions the mirror just so. The reflection, Sam thinks, is a hallucination. Plain and simple as there's no possible way that he's seeing what he's seeing. Lips, and the softest pink. A gash, not supposed to be there. And it's too much, so overwhelming that he mentally blocks out the thought that there's that down there.

Sam is so distressed he gets out the shower and heads straight for bed. He dries himself, a swift towel-off, but otherwise he’s wet and naked beneath the sheets. Dean’s up in a second, that sixth or seventh or maybe always the only sense he's ever had kicking in, hovering, and Sam doesn’t even understand what this fuckery is. He’s dying and growing holes in very important places and he definitely can’t even discuss it, let alone get the courage to research.

October 25th 0600

The cashier at the local pharmacy is super friendly for it being so early and Sam wants to smack her in her perfect little face. The moment he hands over the box of off brand pregnancy tests she ohhed and ahhed, rattling off about lucky girls or something. Sam can’t focus on what she’s saying, the situation too bizarre, hands over the cash and furrows his brows, upset. He wants Dean, can’t believe this shit and honest to god, he’s scared.

It’d taken a full night of insomnia to sort through all the symptoms, knowing since the beginning what was wrong. How blind he’d been to trust a person to share his bed, his proclivity to attract monsters. He visited Web M.d., coming up with the same results, recharted the days and had remembered the night with David. Paranormal, of course he's been cursed, Christ, and how sad was that, that this was even an option in his mind.

 

October 26th 0735

The Impala’s engine starting up had been Sam’s clue it was safe; safe to venture out of bed and immediately pass gas without bowling his brother over. Comfortable enough to slip his hands under the waistband of his boxers and massage his tiny bump - about that, he was actually looking forward to telling Dean that the bump he’d been prodding was actually just bloating at this point. Sam thought he’d have more time but his morning rituals are completely screwed and the moment he finishes pissing on both sticks, a free one and oh the joy, the Impala’s engine rumbles outside.

It doesn't even take three minutes, both plus signs on the tests bright blue beacons and Sam knows for sure he's going to either throw up or pass out. The fact that's he's pregnant-doesn't even know with what- it's so surreal he just, he floored with how to function. Sam has no clue what to do. He can’t think, is absent-mindedly rucking up his t-shirt to scratch against an aching nipple, and the tunnel-vision blur of an old-fashioned panic attack seen through glazed eyes isn’t helping.

What does he do? Sam clenches onto one of the tests and hauls himself up off the bathroom floor - dizzy and weak-kneed and he's not sure when he fell-when he hears Dean jiggle the handle to the motel door. He staggers out of the bathroom, falters as Dean flings the door open, paler than Sam's seen in at three months, spooked.

Sam chokes up, utters desperately, “Dean”

Dean steps over the salt line, zeroing in on the pregnancy test first and then onto his brother’s face.

“Holy Shit.”

+

It should be easy to move forward, should be natural for two seasoned hunters. Problem is, there’s an electrical current in the air, crackling and hair-trigger dangerous. It should be easy - it’s not. Each man is stuck in place, a live charge around them keeping them rooted to their spots. The door needs to be shut, passers-by don't need to be privy to anything involving the Winchesters, so okay, that’s only an issue of stepping back and hey, it doesn’t require thinking. Dean can get on board with that.

Dean takes a quick step back without explaining and Sam’s breathe falters, his eyes snap close. Dean 's struck once again wondering how it is that a man as large as Sammy can effect emotions so subtly. And as the door sweeps back and slams, he knows that Sam won’t open his eyes - knows his brother's fear of Dean not being there if he looks. He knows the feeling, can't count the number of times he’s opened his eyes, breathed in the stagnant air where his brother should have stood.

The space between them feels miles apart, it’s too far and Dean’s going to go down if he doesn’t move forward; issues so fucking enormous that if he obsesses over them he won’t follow through the motions - one foot in front of the other. He has so much anger – and if he were being a total girl and looking closer, jealously would be mixed right in, which he isn’t so he won’t. Raw fury blares hotter than any other emotion and it’s hard to focus on what the most important thing to tackle first so he sets about channeling himself to zero, tuning back into top priorities at hand which from the looks of it, is Sam’s mental state of distress.

Sam’s eyes burn, as if he's shoved grit and glass in the lids and ground them in. He can't open them. Once the motel door shut, he'd resolved not carry on with it; finished. It's easy to let it go, to give it up without a fight because he is exhausted. He won't go on, not without the person he needs most stepping away. Dean knows, figured it out because his brother's a fucking mastermind with clues and he shut the door, left.

“Sam.” Nothing but silence.

“Sam.”

“Dean.” It's croaked out and pathetic and it speaks entirely of how desperate this situation could become if Sam doesn't have some proper support.

“Dean, I don’t know what…I really need to sit down and think things through here. Like, its….um, I know I’m gonna kill him,” he’s doing that hitched laugh thing but Dean knows its tears from here on out, “and I’m pretty sure I’ll need your help to do that.” Dean’s chest is hurting, probably strained himself getting out of bed so early. It’s acting up pretty awful and one hand goes to massage the area, rubbing viciously as he listens to Sam’s pleas.

Hunting, even in its base nightmarish reality, is a fairly simple concept compared to this mess of a mind fuck some supernatural one night stand thought was a good idea. The bed’s so close; god, he could just curl up and be a big baby – and even he knows this is not the time for bad puns – but his feet have made a decision. His brain is in cahoots with his feet, as well as his mouth apparently, as Dean briskly walks to Sam making these stupid shhhh sounds as if Sam is some sort of feral stray.

That thought brings him up to speed with his involuntary reactions towards his younger brother’s emotions, grabbing him up tight against his chest and wrapping arms solidly around his neck. It turns out to be an incredibly reassuring move as he's been unaware of how upset he is; Dean can feel individual muscles in his shoulders and lower back unwinding.

Sam’s fairing a tad better than before as the horrid sobs he’d been ready to set loose morph into the harsh pants of a panic attack against Dean’s neck. In fact, he’s so far burrowed into Dean’s space his nose is smooshed up against the stubble of trimmed hair around Dean’s ears, making Dean squirm against the tickle of warm breath. His hands wrench tightly into fists underneath the jacket Dean has on, grabbing hold of Dean’s t-shirt behind his shoulder blades. Dean falls in line, threading his fingers just this side of harsh through ridiculously long locks, patting and tugging at the soft hairs. Sam can’t move within the hold Dean has on him but Dean can and does, suddenly aware that he’s scuffing his own stubbled cheek lightly against his brother’s in some strange attempt of solace. In doing so he gets this crazy peripheral view of the two of them entangled from the motel dresser’s mirror.

Later, when he’s good and liquored up enough to deal, he’ll allow himself the concern over what he does next, but in the here and now he can’t find it in himself to stop his actions. Sam’s towering over him, still panting wildly and his eyes cinched closed. He makes this odd hurt noise when Dean loosens the grip of his left arm from Sam’s neck and Dean watches himself lower his hand. Watches as blunt, un-groomed fingernails drag a slow line down Sam’s shoulder blade, pressing in harder over Sam’s ribs and stop at his waist.

He starts up again with a gentler motion, watches and hears himself gasp as he moves his hand between the two of them, cups Sam’s mid-section. His eyes glaze over as all those aforementioned issues start to rise, as well as a very specific something else completely inappropriate--jesus fuck, he thinks--and he slams his eyes shut to the view as he wills himself soft almost immediately. If Sam notices he’s not giving any signs. Dean’s pretty sure his brother has moved into his hand and that right there is enough for him...at the moment.

It isn’t until Sam’s body stops vibrating too terribly that Dean thinks he might be able to release his hold and not end up with dead weight in his arms. Instead of having to be the one initiating, Sam takes the lead. Large palms loosen and lightly pat Dean on the shoulders in attempt to say all is fine for the moment. His expression though, Sam scruffs back over Dean’s cheeks and lifts his head, is an entirely different matter.

“Okay Sammy, okay.”

“Oh god, Dean, please. No "I told-you-so’s" or anything like that okay?” Sam cards his hands through his bangs and lock them together behind his neck. It’s a gesture Dean rarely catches, means his kid brother is at a complete loss.

“Yeah,” Dean laughs lightly, “wasn’t thinking anything like that.”

“What then!?" Complete silence fills the gap between them, the A/C by the window gurgling to life.

"Shit, man. Sorry that was bitchy,” Sam lets out an un-amused chuckle, “hormones.”

That’s just not playing fair as Dean feels he's been way too good a brother to be tossed a line like that and not be able to quip, “…you’re killing me here….”

“Shut up jerk”

“Says the bitch.”

Sam sounds pissed but Dean’s trying like mad to loosen up because who the hell wants to carry on like this? They both shrug, some lame ass attempt at getting rid of the smothering tense weight in the room. Dean can’t help himself, palms Sam’s cheek and drags a calloused thumb across Sam’s jawline. He won’t hold Sam to the instant relaxing that accompanies the move, just lets it go, removes his hand and makes his way to sit on the edge of his bed. Sam follows suit, taking a few steps over to a pea green armchair nestled in a corner of the room.

There’s a whir of electricity as Sam starts the laptop, the bed opposite his giving a creak as Dean gets back up and crosses over to their kitchenette. Actually just a micro-fridge in the same shade as the armchair Sam’s resting in, still good enough to hold a six pack. There’s always been a ritualistic manner in which the brother’s handled stress. When they were younger, it was racing to see who could get the comfiest seating in the room, the bed with the least amount of stained covers, the seat next to dad in the diner.

As they grew, it was sparring in the back lot of a motel, seeing who could skim through the local grocer’s fruit stands to pick out the funkiest of the fruits. Prank wars were a constant, never getting old. After Stanford and back out on the road, the forgotten habits returned with a vengeance, as in now. Dean fidgeting ‘til he got his hand on a beer. Sam going to his computer, readying a document. There was a familiar metallic pop of a cap, liquid sloshing and the sound of Dean’s belch rounded off the normalcy.

Waiting for a word document to open, Sam looks up to see Dean catch some air and bounce twice after his ass hits the middle of the bed. “Nice. How’s the beer?”

There’s a garumph noise, mortified really. “Please, like I’mma let this go to waste. But uh, it’s cold..” his eyes are sparking with humor, “…and I could give a play by play if you need.”

Sam shifts, it’s not something he’s been thinking about until right this moment. Even with the nausea kicking in he’s imbibed in a few six packs with Dean. Well, fuck. What does that mean? Sam’s fingers pick up a staccato rhythm against the side of the chair, “Thanks but no Dean, no telling what sort of porn dialogue you’ve made up for the stuff.”

“Aww, Sammy…no need for that.” Pouty lips, works every time. “Ok, enough. You got your title centered and fingers ready?”

There’s no response, Sam’s eyes closed as his face is two shades lighter green than the chair. “Yeah, need a sec but yeah.” He opens his eyes and nods.

“First off, your guy. I know he’s not your guy, but I’m talking about him being the baby dad. The other one. Damn, this is weird.”

“You think?” Sam looks incredulous and the bitch of it is, Dean wasn’t even trying to be an ass. He’s suddenly remembering the previous weeks of scary mood swings and thinking of months more to come and it leaves him tight lipped and wide eyed. They make some head way and it's surprisingly comfortable talking specifics about finding David. They were in the area that weekend to take out a vampire nest but the past hunt from the same town kept coming up. A coven gone demon dark side performing some nasty rituals that left many of the town’s children either missing – dead – or maimed – vegetative state - hospital records indicated.

“So we’re thinking witch, possibly, but probably not demon and that leaves us what? Maybe we missed a member of the coven.”

Dean shakes his head in disagreement; he’d been personally contacted by two Wiccan high priests well known throughout the local valley, both extremely concerned with the coven’s practices. They both were well aware that things were off the charts when witches were calling hunters for help. The high priests made it perfectly clear that if the hunters chose to do nothing then the universe would see fit to take care of the rogue members--however long in the future it might be. Dean had assured them that he and Sam were the universe’s solution and in agreement, the wiccans worked quickly to piece meal a ritual and spell to wipe out the problem.

“We’ve royally screwed up before but dude, that spell lit up the parking lot like a fireworks display. Every black magics dealer within a fifty mile radius got nuked or bound that night. And we accounted for every single member of the coven. David’s name, someone with that face, Sam--he wasn’t part of that mess. I don’t know, unless David was working with some Terminator type mojo.”

“Like say, what, Dean? He wasn’t one of the bad guys, the monsters we stir up on a regular basis? I’m pregnant, man. The guy screwed with my insides, probably my DNA, so the power he was working with, there’s just no way. No way he's not involved and definitely not innocent.” And could he not do this without crying please? It’s like a switch flipped and he had no control over his emotions.

“You think it’s demon related then? Clue me in Scarlett.”

“All right. Look, most covens that fall in with demons, from what dad and a few other hunters have gathered, they sort of fall into the deal, right? Power trips being offered are too hard to resist. You might find a few inspirational groups, the pre and present day neopaganists who know who they’ve struck a deal with or rather, won’t. We already know the age thing can be gone around, maybe that’s what this group was. It’s not small news about Azazel’s plans, easy to pick up where he left off, except change the strategy. He could’ve just tapped into the magics they were using, finished the plan all for himself.”

“Sam, I’m not dissing this…”

“Here we go. Right, Dean? I've put the basics out there, we're wasting time, so how am I wrong this time, hmm?”

“Hey! Listen up princess, you’re the mad genius sure, but I’ve done my research too. You know as well as I do the differences: white witches, cunning folk, shaman. I could go on, but that spell we did, Bobby and others gave the back issue version, man, and that shit is still binding up anything bad witchy hinky. Believe me, I’m not defending the fucker because I want you to both make a lot of babies and ride off into the sunset. It just doesn’t add up, that’s all. And anyhow, there’s more we need to look at.” Dean’s suddenly flushed a tinge of red and this makes Sam’s nerves stand on edge.

“Ask away then. I’m ready.”

“You seem set on him being a witch with nasty connections, any other reasons? He do or say anything when you guys were doing--whatever the hell it was you were doing?” Sam watches Dean’s face go from amused to possibly pissed in a matter of seconds. “Anything you remember?”

Dean has an odd cast to his look, not so much worried rather, displeased. Sam has his weird look too but it’s more from needing crackers. The stress of going over this night keeps building up and it’s not doing a darn bit of good for his stomach. “I was groggy, that much I know. He talked a little but that’s no big deal. Until…the actual sex and then it sounded more like chanting. Or praying. I know it doesn't make sense but it was definitely that last – praying.” He blanches and sprawls his legs wide open, balancing the laptop on top of the chest of drawers and leans forward to mentally curse all reproductive functions.

Dean’s too stuck on the visuals Sam just burned in his brain to focus on all the possibilities that could mean. He's stuck on his brother – his Sam, damn it – with some douche nozzle’s dick all up in him and that's, that's Dean coming to term with some issues he wasn't fully aware of until now. The worst part of all this is the violation, the supernatural beat downs that gravitate around them. Sam’s finished talking and Dean is livid. He wants to get the show started. The kicker, what he never planned to hear from his brother, ever, is a nasty sideswipe, almost knocking him short of breath.

“I did the count back, it’s into two months now…I’m running out of time.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those readers following both versions of the story, this chapter is the beginning of dramatic differences between verses. I previously said Chapter Six, I was wrong. This version was not beta'd until the last few chapters and even then, I've tinkered. My apologies for my grammar, misspellings, despite assistance. Thank you, as always, for reading.

Three days, a few naps (and who is he kidding, it’s all he does anymore), and one pile of ash later, Sam attempts to find a way to be comfortable in the front seat of the Impala, his ginger ale slushing around in a Styrofoam cup. They’d agreed to not talk, leave it alone for a while, and had set about not bothering each other too much. And they didn’t - didn’t even so much as look at one another that often. So it was annoying, at present, to glance over and catch Dean sneaking these peeks at him.

Dean is failing, has been lately, in being stealthy, and his tell at the moment is his grip on the steering wheel, gripping harder and harder as the seconds tick by. It wouldn’t bother Sam so much if they were Dean’s normal once-overs, the ones Dean uses to make Sam feel like a giant nerd just for the hell of it; a primordial need to be a bastard of a big brother. No, these looks haven't ever been directed towards Sam, glances that are a touch of irritated and a whole lot like sizing up prey. Which, okay, Sam had in fact seen it a few times but only when Dean was two whiskey shots to the wind and looking to climb into a girl's pants.

He’d ask later, goose bumps along his arms forming in response to the attention, and Sam snaps, bodily turning to Dean as he's had enough of whatever nonsense is stewing in his brother's head. “What? Something I can help you with?”

“What? No, naw." There is an audible pause, a flicker of a glance. "Okay, yeah. Maybe.” Dean fidgets noticeably, and Sam knows to worry as that's a sign, an alarm, because Dean rarely allows himself to get this edgy when driving his girl. There's always been that moment when he's pulled off the road, accusing Sam's being in general of the type of shenanigans that leads to bad driving. Of course, then those thoughts always turned to the possible accidents that could happen thanks to Sam being Sam and there they would sit, on the side of the road while Dean hyperventilated.

Sam has a quiet moment himself, at present, as he thinks on how his brother is way past mental. He allows his head to lull ungracefully to the left in order to stare directly back at Dean, and he mutters, “Got about three different answers to all of life's mysteries, Dean, so which one is it? I’m bone-tired and you’re keeping me up while simultaneously giving me the creeps.” Sam knows he's not making much sense but he’s on edge these days, and Dean’s odd behavior has had his left eye twitching non-stop.

Dean scowls, yet the lines of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “What are you, five?” Bad attitudes, he thinks, can't be helped when Sam is whining. “Big baby.”

Sam is feeling generous, so he gives his brother the finger and leaves it at that. He has better things to do (most notably to sleep) than field insults thrown his way. Mind made up, he settles into the indents of his ass in the well-worn seat, turning and sinking his head as low as it can go to rest on the top edge of their seat, eyelids already drooping. His breathing evens out, and he nods off, a new record of thirty seconds.

“C’mon Sam, don’t fall asleep, I want to talk.”

Sam’s head is sleep fuzzy, can’t think straight, but he manages a touch and go, opens up his eyes. It doesn’t help that when he is awake there’s this new and entertaining pregnancy symptom where looking out at the road or paying attention to tree tops and power lines whirring by his window (and he gags, not wanting to even think about it), it makes him want to vomit. And then it clicks, what Dean just said.

Holy shit, he's wide awake now. “I’m sorry--I think I’m in the wrong car. Did you...? No, screw that. Christo.”

And Dean, the same man whose personal motto centers around dying before conversing like an adult with Sam, has the nerve to look offended. “You little bitch. Did you just Christo me?”

Nope, Sam crosses it off his mental checklist, not possessed. “Huh, yeah. Shut up and drink this.” He’s already flipped Dean’s whiskey flask open, the same one with the cross on it.

“Sam, knock it off!” Dean grunts it out, gives him the best ‘spit roast on this, ya fucker’ glare he has in his armory. “I’m serious, now. Don’t interrupt, I need to go over things with you." And as Sam shoots him a look of disbelief, Dean has the nerve to look seriously put out. "Thought this sort of glittery hearts and soul sharing crap would be right up your alley.”

Dean is mildly shocked when he realizes he has one hand bolted to the steering wheel and the other, friggin hell, the other is a solid weight on Sam's thigh. Correction, inner thigh, mid-level. Sam’s jeans are coarse under his palm, material well worn and loose from the giant only owning two pairs. He hates how touching Sam sends a tiny rush of adrenaline straight through him, and god knows it’s wrong, but he can’t seem to make himself let go. His fingers tighten into the fabric, and he feels the bands of muscle there straining. He should really let go right now; it’s safe to say that Sam’s noticed.

Oh, he’s noticed.

It’s no surprise to anyone who's known the Winchesters for more than a minute that they aren't exactly the touchy-feely type of guys. Granted, there's working a case and the sort of hands-on feeling-up that's this side of questionable whenever things go south. Bobby's withering looks or a garumph of sorts sets them apart. Usually, not always. They both damn well know John would bench their asses and ask just what it was they'd been smoking if he were privy to some of the affections they’ve afforded each other as of late. And while most people assume Dean’s the naysayer to being physical, Sam feels pretty much the same: hugs, any tactile interactions with Dean, should typically be saved for special occasions.

Times such as, ‘Hey, good job keeping your guts in,’ deserve firm pats on the back. Or say, ‘Glad you came back to life. Still looking pretty awesome,’ after yet another resurrection. Those times, of course Sam can see the need for a good solid hug. The whole growing a womb and stuff, that was a hug by default. But this, Sam can count this new touch as part of a growing trend with Dean, lingering and confusing in its own mysterious, non-brotherly way.

Even if he set aside the groping, Sam can count on one hand the number of times Dean has uttered the phrase ‘We should talk’. There was the sex talk – Sam’s still amazed he’s not scarred for life being that his highly over-sexed, older brother used his own stories as examples. The talk at Stanford to get him back on the road, that was noteworthy. The pulling of teeth getting Dean to fess up about his deal, going to the Pit. Post traumatic memories are near begging to stomp forward there, only, he’s wrenched back to the present, Dean's fingers on his upper leg clenching and releasing in fits. It's obvious then, the nerves. It's not like Dean to act all sketchy like this, and it worries Sam, damn near scares the crap out of him.

“Fuck. Fuck! I can't take this again, seriously.”

Dean’s trying to understand how they got here when they were well over there and why Sam is swearing like a sailor. It aids neither the steering wheel nor Sam’s thigh as he torques the pressure up with his grasp. There’s a tap of a foot against the baseboard, a harsher sound than normal, but everything seems fine. It’s when Sam shuts up, stays that way, that Dean makes his way to the nearest exit an eighth of a mile up ahead. He wants to pull over, and fuck it all if he hadn’t just wanted to talk; he knows it’s probably a strange thing for him to ask for but there’s no need to be overly dramatic. Dean glances to his right, out Sam’s window, to see if he’s clear to switch lanes. In doing so, he gets this god awful visual of Sam’s enormous mouth slightly opened, and he’s four shades of green.

Sam has absolutely no clue how to handle these crazed emotions that hit him at all the wrong times. Having them at all pisses him off, and even if he knows the chemical reasons behind his behaviors, he doesn’t want to be such a huge mess. Worse, Dean’s seen the panic, has them barreling off the highway and into an empty carpool parking lot. Twenty seconds, Dean accidentally pops his brother’s head attempting to get the Impala off the road and get a hand on his brother’s neck. He vaguely recalls seeing a platinum ’67 Oldsmobile rolling past, a tiny little girl in the backseat, her nose smooshed up against the window and laughing.

Ten, he finally pulls off the main road and sends a chorus of 'thanks' to the sky for the parking lot being empty. It's safe to say he is fit to be tied. He doesn’t want to be, though. For the life of him, he can't figure out why this instance of Sam being stubborn bothers him as much as it does. The anger rolls down his spine, causes him to sift in calming breaths through locked teeth. The spot he donutted the car into is so desolate that there’s a thick layer of dirt and leafy debris covering the lot. It’s as perfect place as any to wring his brother’s neck.

Eight, Sam, once again, has Dean’s hand fused to his leg and the pressure is doing a variety of messed up things. There’s the pain, which makes his stomach seize up in knots. His inner thigh is delicate territory, and it makes him feel pinned, trapped. The more worrisome effect is the strange spark of interest flaring up, the ‘ungh, so good’ feeling expanding through his groin.

Sam isn’t confused, knows his reaction to the stimulus is based on chemicals all out of whack as well as his past memories, college experiences. What he wants most is to get out of the car, the air stifled sitting so close to Dean right now.

Seven, Sam realizes he’s probably going to pass out, that his eyes are watering from the overload of emotions. It’s too fucking hot in the car, the combination of feeling ill and of misplaced horniness crashing his system.

Six, Dean’s face flushes red from confusion as he quiets his brain long enough to pay closer attention to Sam, whispers, “Are you crying?”

Five, the Impala gives a wrenched groan as her driver’s side door is flung open. Her hood gives a dry squeak as a hand uses itself to propel the body around to her passenger side door. That door doesn’t so much groan as much as emits a grinding metal noise as it too is flung open. Her leather seats give up a sticky squelch as the body occupying the passenger side is forcibly removed, causes the indent to rise up slowly with a hiss of air.

Four, Sam was happy a few minutes ago, and now he’s more than his fair share of pissed. He’s not sobbing, the tears are more or less streaming down his cheeks unhindered and without any hiccupping of breath. He’s been yanked from his seat, and sure, he saw Dean circle the car, but he froze, didn’t expect his door to be ripped open. He didn't anticipate being carted out of the car like a sack of potatoes, slammed up against it with a face full of ticked off older brother.

Two, Dean is hoping to hell he hasn’t hurt Sam or the baby, becoming more infuriated with Sam’s stupid freaking hormones carrying over to him. He can’t see straight, eyes all full of his grown kid brother; stupid, stubborn, grown man who is knocked-up, violated, crying and it eats away at his sanity, everything he’s ever kept in check. Misguided, stupid--Dean can't get back to normal, thoughts of David touching Sam raising the temperature of his blood to boiling.

One, Sam grew up knowing to always expect that his life was forever going to be different. He grew up learning to expect Dean’s overprotectiveness as well as his anger when things went off the charts, out of control. He was raised knowing Dean loved him fiercely, loved him so deeply Hell wasn't enough of a threat to deter his safekeeping.

Sam rarely speaks of growing up with these expectations, never voices his wonder on Dean’s training him to be loved unconditionally, never thinks too long on how his growing up under Dean’s constant watch affected both his and Dean’s psyches. So it is what Sam never expects, doesn't know until the third day after telling Dean his news of expecting, that Sam finds himself in an abandoned car lot, pressed up against the only real home he’s ever known to be real with his brother angry as hell, standing between his legs. He never knew how truly damaged they really were until Dean kissed him.

+

The only thing Sam can focus on is Dean; his face, well, he can’t see that at the moment because he’s closed his eyes to focus on the smell and the sounds around them. There’s the sound of boots with the hard rubber soles scraping roughly on the leaf-strewn asphalt. That would be Dean’s left boot inched forward, now tucked nice and tight between Sam’s slightly spread thighs. Dean’s muscles bunch, and Sam blanks out, feels the movement up through his lower body, and he's unsure of how he should feel about that.

The sky’s turned dark, the sun hidden behind light, grey storm clouds racing across the horizon. There’s no snow, still too soon for that in this area, and there’s no rain forecasted, but the bleak sky still seems to threaten one or the other. A distant thrum of cars roaring down the interstate – slightly visible through the tree line if someone cared to focus that hard – the noises don’t block out the soft beeps of a few chickadees nestled snugly in the surrounding trees. None of the sounds cancel Dean’s meanings translated harshly against Sam’s lips.

A steady gust of wind is chilled with the late autumn temperature, cold enough to get their noses running, redden their cheeks and fingertips. They’re pressed together so closely, Sam can tell Dean’s scent is infused with the outdoor air, pungent with pine, a bizarre side note of sorts.

Neither of their hands card through the other’s hair in ecstasy, there is no heaving of steel chests, and there is most definitely no rutting together of parts below the belt. Sam continues on with his sideways thinking, wants to snort at the thought of Dean ribbing him; for as long as he’s been old enough to know what his dick was for, ‘if you can’t say it you shouldn’t be doing it’.

What does happen is that Dean does have Sam caged in, his arms bracing Sam’s upper arms tightly to his sides as Dean grips the roof of the Impala. Sam’s been running hot these days due to what he’s read as the extra blood volume caused by pregnancy. That, coupled with a wave of dizziness from essentially being confined, sweep over him right as Dean licks tentatively between Sam’s lips.

Sam vaguely registers the sensations of too much, feeling boneless, overheated and shockingly horny, and then there’s a black wash of fog at the corners of his mind. He knows the importance of his knees feeling this damn weak but doesn’t know how to (doesn’t want to) separate from Dean long enough to tell him. The last thing he feels before the fog takes him under is the weight of Dean’s grip around his waist, fingers edging his hipbones.

Dean’s not entirely positive on what just occurred. Well, that’s a bit of a lie, he tells himself, as he knows exactly what he just did. Rather, what he’s still doing as he darn sure isn’t stopping anytime soon.

He kissed Sam; correction, is still kissing him. He groans into Sam’s mouth, and really, Sam’s being such a good guy about the messed-up situation, being so damn receptive. Dean cares that he’s scarring Sam, destroying them down past the foundations, but right now, he has the man right snug against him. He can’t not want to stay in the strange sensation of muscles playing underneath him. Sam is warm, wet, different and masculine, and Dean feels the need to explore every square inch like yesterday.

That is, he wants to until all that muscle starts to sag a little and then not simply sagging but going limp. Both men are well aware of what dead weight feels like, and despite his being teased about lust hazed lizard brains, Dean never lets his hormones overshadow safety. Right now he’s confident that Sam is about to pass out. This is a huge safety concern as Sam weighs about a ton, and Dean does not want to be crushed, nor does he want Sam smacking his head on asphalt.

It’s no big deal, and the grin he sports is wide enough to be qualified Cheshire worthy, accepting that he can now officially die a happy man. He kissed his brother, and yeah, he’s smart enough to know it has more to do with the shock and pregnancy rather than his mad lip abilities, but he kissed him, and Sam passed out. It takes all his focus not to do the shout victoriously, and while there’s a wild laugh bubbling up in his chest, Sam’s massive weight is taking precedence.

Dean manhandles the floppy weight of his brother forward in order to close the passenger door, using said closed door to maneuver Sam onto the pavement. Their combined weight makes a squelching sound against the metal as he slides them down. He lets Sam’s body rest against the Impala, still holding on to his arm for fear of him toppling, and makes to get situated until Sam wakes up.

Dean lowers himself to the asphalt, leaning back against the car, and tugs Sam over sideways into the vee of his legs. Sam’s back presses flush to his chest and he’s essentially cradled by Dean, a surge rushing through Dean with the thought. Sam’s legs sprawl for damn near miles, straight out in front of them. Dean sighs, relaxed for once, and allows himself to slip his fingers through unruly hair, finding Sam’s scalp and massaging with one hand while the other slides around to Sam’s front.

It’s not that he’s trying to molest the his brother, as that 's gross and utterly non-consensual and god knows that's the last thing Sam should suffer from his hand; it's that Sam is out, won't bark at Dean for indulging in touching Sam’s abs, and yes, Dean is very well aware of how wrong it is. A teeny tiny tug of guilt plays on a loop in the background, Dean concerned he's going too far, so he opts out for skin on skin, lets the layers of shirts that his fingers had already started lifting fall haphazardly. He tells himself there’s nothing wrong with his hands on the outside though. Hell, Sam indignantly designated the expanse as Dean's yesterday, said it did feel better when the area was rubbed. That in mind, thick fingers inch slowly forward until the whole of his hand, not small by any means, cup over the small bulge, and with the touch, there’s a small surge of movement as Sam begins to stir.

“Hey, shh, Sam. It’s okay, dude.”

There’s a litany spilling out of him, more “shh’s” and affirmations of not going anywhere, willing Sam to come back slowly. Waking up from passing out can be confusing as hell, nauseating at times and Dean is hoping that Sam can transition out smoothly. After all, his brother will need his wits about him for all the glorious ribbing Dean plans to inflict.

That thought process is halted immediately as his left hand takes over, gives a soft squeeze to the cupped swell, and Sam arches up into the hold. Dean stops the head massage, hand moving in autopilot around Sam’s front--uses the new grip on Sam’s chest to press him in tighter, nice and snug into Dean. He keeps that hand there, a finger or two skimming roughly across the collarbone as he brings Sam’s head to lie against his shoulder. Perfect access, he rubs dry lips against Sam’s temple, murmuring quietly.

Dean doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting, can’t be more than a few minutes but as far as he’s concerned, they should just skip driving and stay all night. Skip everything because he’s found his own personal nirvana, fingers of his other hand rubbing circles across one hipbone tracing skin over to the other. Dean’s imagination is on hyper drive, he can feel the bulge, the barely tangible stretch, delicate in contrast to the surrounding muscles. Fingers flying, discovering a faint prickle of hair – Jesus, Sam’s happy trail and fuck if he doesn’t have to shutter his eyes after that.

Sam shaves, has made mention of it and Dean can’t blame him. He knows Sam is grossed out by the image of a male, hairy swollen stomach and Dean understands, he does, the aesthetic appeal of being smooth. Although now, the hair is fucking with his senses, has him squeezing his eyes shut, lips tensed into a crude pucker from gritted teeth as he wills yet another inappropriate hard-on away.

“For crying out loud…sorry Sammy,” he places a shiver of kisses against the curve of Sam’s cheekbone, “Can’t help it man. Tried, I did, tried to not be this and I’m so very sorry. So fucking gorgeous.” Dean laughs when his brat of a brother picks the apology moment, stirring back to consciousness as soon as the compliment slips from Dean’s lips onto Sam’s forehead.

He’s loathe to let go just yet, letting his brother blink away the residual grogginess while safely held in his arms. That right there, that kind of thinking should embarrass him. It should not only do that, it should make him get up now, run far away, maybe check into a hospital; admittance under perving on his pregnant hulk of a brother. Sam’s eyes are already half-focused on the woods around them and he’s not making to get away. Letting Dean hold onto him.

“Dean?”

After standing them both up, Sam protesting loudly, “I can stand up by myself jackass”, there’s a quick check to Dean’s cellphone for the time. It’s around five p.m. and the wind has picked up, causing the Impala’s hood to chill. Freezes their asses straight through their jeans as both brothers recline against her. Sam feels a little worse for wear but the fresh air does wonders, and he isn’t too terribly bothered by the insistent drip of snot trying to make a mess of his upper lip. He fishes around his back pocket for a rag, old tissue, something--ends up acting like a five year and uses the extra fabric of his shirtsleeve to dab at his nose. “You’re right, we need to-” He’s cut off by a screech, a hawk barely visible in the dark and circling the treetops to their right, looking for its next kill.

“Talk? S’what I was getting at the whole time before you threw holy whiskey on me and gave one heck of a performance with your giant hissy fit.”

Sam watches as Dean shakes his head in amusement, does not look up to meet his stare. He does take note of his brother’s stance, a relaxed, easy one that to any outsider wouldn’t seem to be the cover-up Sam knows. Thing is, he gets the feeling Dean’s not nervous about what happened earlier with the things that happened with their lips together; no, he thinks this has to do with talking. It shouldn’t amuse him, it totally shouldn’t, but Sam’s shoulders start to shake, the hood vibrating with the movement.

Dean finally looks up, expects to see anger, the thought fleeting as he recognizes that Sam is laughing, not crying. It’s just past dusk and the colors Sam sees in Dean’s eyes are muted and warm, accompanied with a gentle smile only Sam is ever privy to witness. Of course, the sugary sweetness of the moment lasts all of four seconds as the smile cracks and then Dean’s chuckling.

“Awww, Sam. You know, you stick that bottom lip out any further it’s going to get stuck that way forever.” He looks up to see a junior hawk being tagged by a few smaller birds and motions to the commotion as he continues, “They’ll peck it right off.”

Dean shrugs as Sam turns his head slightly and cocks it, glaring at Dean because he knows this is only starting. “Know what? Never mind, that look goes great with the whole Southern belle routine you’ve started. Gonna call you Sa-MAN-tha darlin’ from now on.” Sam rears back from the southern drawl of his name, throws his head back, gently, as the whole car’s shaking, Dean’s body rocking it as he laughs.

“Mhmm, okay. Excuse me for not being able to handle the intensity of the situation – my body’s been running ten kinds of hot and my system shut down because my older brother tried to climb his way into my mouth.” The words hold no spite, he doesn’t say them with any malice whatsoever but it’s enough. It’s enough to snap Dean’s spine straight, laughter ceasing immediately.

What’s different about this time, in how Dean reacts towards Sam’s words, is all in the body language. Sam suddenly has a face full of Dean again. It’s not anger bristling up through his bloodstream, it’s a disgruntled emotion. Heaven knows it’s not meant to hurt Dean’s feelings, the way he turns his face away from him. He wonders how much he can tolerate of Dean flipping the switch to big brother, not as careful with Sam, with his feelings. And Sam gets it, the other Dean he’s been privy to these last two days, a Dean that hasn’t been so much a brother, rather, more a man who is striving to fill in as more.

“You going to kiss me again?”

Mission accomplished, acquiring a second to think, as Dean pulls back; apparently, he needed a few centimeters distance to palm his face, rubbing over his chin as if he’s trying to figure out some great philosophical theory. But it’s Dean and Sam and damn if that’s not ever going to be a bigger mystery. The pause is over as Dean switches roles once again, has his two large palms encompassing the outline of Sam’s face.

“Don’t see you complaining now. I don’t see you walking away, getting into the car, hell, punching me. I’m only willing to be the bad guy for so long.”

Sam’s heart is skittering. He has this crazy mind's eye perspective, imagines watching from the outside as Dean leans in and ghosts his lips over Sam’s ear, whispers, “I will never hurt you, you know that, but I’m so sick of being a bystander in your life. Now I’m going to back up and we’re going to talk about this politely. I’m okay with pretending it’s me that has the ovaries, whatever, as long as you explain – in detail – how you feel about this, after I explain my side. ‘Kay?” He emphasizes this by sinking his thumbs into the hollow of Sam’s cheeks, like he can will Sam to stand still through the sheer force of his fingertips. “Mean it dude, you know I won’t hurt you. Confuse you sure, keep your ass in line with a few pops to the back of the head because that’s my job.”

Fucking hell.

God help him, Sam’s going to follow along. His brother’s been possessed or worse, he’s being himself, and Sam’s going to give in and talk about his feelings with him. He nods into Dean, his brother still snugged firmly against him, and Sam can still feel the bow of lips pressed up to the shell of his ear. “Yeah, yeah, I need…need some space, okay? I can’t think straight while you’re on me like this. Kind of don’t want to pass out again.” And he doesn’t, waking up was not an enjoyable feeling, was confusing and made his stomach roll, despite Dean’s best efforts in comfort. Dean acquiesces, steps off to his side, leaning back against the hood once more.

“Tell you what, I know the space heater you're carrying is throwing a helluva party in you but I’m walking solo and starting to get freezer burn. Go drain yourself and I’ll get the car started.”

Sam certainly can’t fight the logic and it’s a bitch but he has to pee. Still, he’s trying to figure out when he started taking commands like Benji. “I’ll be over there.” Points to a small thatch of foot high saplings over in the corner of the lot, good enough cover.

Dean can’t leave well enough alone, has to go and poke the wound. Sam’s awake now, thus he’s fair game, so Dean steps around lightening quick to start the car, gets out and jogs over to his brother. He’s managed to reach the grassy area at the same time as Sam and makes the mental side note - Sam’s getting a little slower these days. Dean’s unzipped, almost finished with his business and he waits – waits past the sound of Sam’s zipper sliding down and then right until he hears the first drop of stream crinkle against the leaves. Tucking his junk back in he pauses until he hears Sam’s sigh and strikes, promptly reaches over to grab a handful of ass.

They're both stunned, Dean momentarily by the sheer amount of ample flesh in his hand. He’s never been into guys but there’s appreciation, and Sam’s got a sweet ass. Sam’s stunned silent but Dean does give him props - dude doesn’t freak out and change aim. Just stands slack jawed as Dean drawls lewdly at him, “Don’t be too long princess, sure after today you probably might want to think twice about me helping you de-thaw…parts.”

Dean lets go after a nice firm crack against one of the perfect globes, doesn’t even run off; swaggers back to the car, laughing his ass off as the sound of Sam’s hissing retort scares off a few squirrels, “Sonuvabitch, Dean, you jerk. God, know what, never mind.” Sam decides then and there to keep Dean up all night…if it’s talking he wants, it’s talking he’ll get.


	6. Chapter 6

Common knowledge maintains that allergies to silver are very uncommon. Therefore, barring that rare occurrence, silver knives - pure silver - will not hurt a human because of the element itself. Rather, people and animals are hurt because the knife’s blade can slice into flesh. Depending on the quality of care for the weapon and the way in which it’s wielded and used, it can hurt just a smidge or it can make a person sing praises to demons in hell and gods in heavens most never even knew existed.

Sam makes damn sure the blade only nicks Dean’s palm.

There’s the use of salt as a weapon. Sodium Chloride’s power typically does not force a non-possessed human to count individual granules for hours nor does it keep them out of or stuck in a place (unless there’s a massive amount blocking an entrance which in that case begs the question, why?). However, it does taste nasty when dissolved in water and one sets about to drink down the mixture. Strike that, it’s disgustingly foul and it makes Sam cringe as he watches Dean chug the bottle he just handed over. On the plus side, there’s the instant relief it brings of gas bubbles; a definite positive because god knows the Winchesters are nothing if not prolific with their digestive systems.

“There’s an iron crowbar in the trunk.”

Dean isn’t asking for much, simply wants Sam to know that he’s not been possessed or cursed. The precautions taken have him bleeding from his own silver knife, drenched in whiskey he had asked to drink but instead, Sam sprinkled at him (He’d put his foot down on that fuckery. You don’t ever waste blessed hard liquor even if it is rotgut), and he has a stomachache from the lukewarm bottle of salt water he drank. Sam says it’s karma and he won’t elaborate, just sits there smirking.

“You can take your karma and shove it, yoga master.” There’s no spite in Dean’s tone and he doesn’t turn to give a pointed look at Sam. Instead, he has his eyes peeled forward in favor of watching for the next roadside motel.

Truth is, Dean’s afraid and for all the bravado he mustered up earlier in the day, he’s worried sick that these feelings are more than meets the eye. Worried these emotions are skin deep and supernatural, these feelings of love and want coursing his veins. It’s not hard to place that they only came up one night after he sat down in a bar a little over two months ago. That has to be it, and he wants the works…needs for Sam to perform the rites.

“I can’t get to the trunk without us pulling over, Speed Racer and god forbid you actually stop.”

“Smart ass” Dean mumbles.

“That I am but Dean, I was hoping you’d elaborate on your reasoning behind me doing all this; you haven’t and I’m frustrated.” Sam barks out a laugh when Dean gives him an incredulous side-eye, “Okay, uh, laughing at some of it, sure, but come on, help me out here.” He sweeps his hands towards Dean’s general area, careful not to slap his brother who’s looking a little peakish. A similar look that Sam wears on any given moment these days.

“Sign says there’s a Holiday Express next exit so it looks like we’ll be living the high life tonight, Sam.” Dean’s elusiveness is nothing if not predictable and a lesser man would cave in, fight. Sam is not a lesser man, equally if not ten times more stubborn than his brother.

“You should think about refreshing your avoidance tactics, Dean, you’re getting stale in your old age.“ Sam’s far from being exasperated, knows there’s so much more to go, and rubs the back of his neck in anticipation, “You told me to do this, said after what you did at the pull-off you needed both of us to know you’re not cursed, and I’m playing along because, yeah, it freaked me out. So, I’m doing hunter 101 tricks which, okay, I’ve got one or two more things to seal the deal but I think I know what’s going on here.”

Dean’s only response is pegging the accelerator while resolutely not looking over to the passenger side.

“All right then, no answer so, I’m going to assume, given what I think is a case of you having non-supernatural thoughts, albeit taboo, that when it comes to my fine sexy self,” and Sam is totally grinning from ear to ear, “the great Dean Winchester is all show and no action.” He says this in hopes to goad Dean into action, knows his brother wants to share once again, and as before, it’s going to take some shoving.

That last statement hits Dean square in the face; hell, Sam knows he essentially bitch slapped him. The words are low, dirty, and offensive and Dean is oddly proud of his brother for stepping up his game.

“That’s how we’re playing, Sam? I’d fill you in on the type of action I’m into but you’d probably view it as flirting, you giant perv. You want serious, okay then. Truth and nothing but the truth. See, I’d hedge my bet on your Romeo setting us both up…but I’d be lying. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want to do what happened back there, didn’t want more.” Dean’s forcing it out, grimacing as the words spill, his tone inflecting the correct amount of disdain. To Sam though, it’s all for show, the precautions, the evasive answers.

“And it bothers you, pains you.” Sam’s response is validated as soon as Dean starts bouncing his knee. “And no, that wasn’t a question.

No answer, just the scrape of jeans against the leather seats as Dean becomes more uncomfortable, knee stilling.

“Fair enough.” Sam laughs and reaches for the backseat, clumsily knocking things around in his duffel as he searches out the item he’d alluded to earlier.

He upsets a few t-shirts, grabs hold of a tube of lube – laughs hard – and finally finds purchase on what he thinks he needs and voila. Says, “But if we’re talking about it, we’re doing it like the grown men we are, starting off by saying it. It’s incest. Just a word, right Dean? I.n.c.e.s.t”

A moment of unease settles in the car, Dean moving his cut hand down off the steering wheel to carry on his own search. The box of tapes clatters as he finds the right plastic case, picks it out like a prize and pops the ancient cassette into the tape deck. It’s one of the few tapes he’d managed to confiscate from John; he barely plays it to keep it from becoming threadbare.

A few seconds after the tape clicks into place, Dean swallows harshly then lets his face settle on blank. He thought once he’d tackled (literally) some of what was going on in his head that things would tie themselves up in nice big bows. Turns out, that plan of attack just makes it worse.

He takes a moment to let dad’s cassette pop and click into life, the intro and relaxed strains of Traffic filling the car, washing over him. Sam huffs but visibly loosens, shifts so his back is against the door; Dean watches as tension ebbs out of Sam in small degrees – figures now’s as good as time as any to be serious.

“Incest, Sam. Holy…yeah, incest and it’s taboo, looked down on, the big, ugly redneck joke that’s a laugh a minute, mutant baby making, give me a second; I’ll have more.” He can’t bring himself to face Sam, just carries on. “Yeah, you’re right, which is why I want to make sure that I’ve covered all the bases. Makes sense to start from ground zero, before I have to deal with this being my own fucked up mental state. So do me a favor and try not to be a …” Dean reels his common jab back in, “try not to make it sound so - trivial. ”

Sam hears him, he does, so it’s difficult not to become too worked up; if he gets upset then he loses the progress they’re making. “Really, Dean? Aren’t you the one who told me, in the car, after grabbing my ass, that you were okay with all this and I quote, ‘Wouldn’t mind turning it every shade of crimson on the spectrum’?”

He doesn’t allow Dean’s uncomfortable groan to disrupt his train of thought, instead trudges forward. Not that he wants to - Sam wants to stop, god, does he ever. He’s not as prepared as he might like to think with Dean’s revelations. “I can assure you, trivial is the furthest thought in my mind. This isn’t me pandering for your protection, this is me asking you to let me inside your stubborn head. The possession, creature-free proof bit was funny while it lasted, but I’m over playing after this last test.” When he opens his hand, palm up, there’s a hex bag. It’s one thing to give some nicks and other quick fixes but hex bags equal witches. And the only witch they’ve come in contact with is the sneaky prick who cursed him so yeah, Sam can understand Dean’s next statement.

Dean’s calm demeanor is replaced instantly with agitation, a low snarl issuing outwards. “A little souvenir, Sam? Shit.”

“C’mon, we’ve been inseparable for the last two months. I can assure you, I’d have noticed if you were displaying werewolf type behavior, demon possession, wraith, incubus needs, I could go on. It’s been you all along, the big brother with all your over-zealous attention to my well-being only, you’ve been doing it in a way that no brother would. You’ve been hyper-aware of my every move, Dean, and I’m amazed you hadn’t tried something before now.”

Sam leans in, tilts his face to get a clearer look onto Dean’s face. Dean’s face, which is frozen in horror and stubbornly facing forward.

“I researched a spell or two, figured you were zapped like me, some residual slap in the face once you got back to the room. I mean, you’ve slept with me, in the same bed, for the last week, so yeah, I made a hex bag and a small ritual. ”

Funny how such a seemingly innocent item like a burlap sack can send a mood spiraling downwards in flames. Guitars are thrumming during the song’s break, in his head, as Dean continues to ignore the sight of the bag as if it wronged him; he’s with Sam on this even though he feels the need to protest. “Screw you, thinking you know me like that.”

Sam can claim the win, feels victorious because that there is Dean speak for ‘get it over with’, giving him the all clear. As a consolation, Sam gives a brief description of the ritual. “Relax man, all it will take is the hex bag, a white votive candle, a strand of your hair, and a circle of salt. I’ve written a bastardized version of an unbinding spell…all thanks given to one A. Katherine, a.k.a. lilmizlitnbolt, of Wesson, MS.”

Dean’s a lit fuse, unsure of whether this emotion that kicks him in the gut is what he’s afraid of, a mix of disappointment and relief. He knows he should be thankful, relieved that Sam might have a way to make things go back to normal, but his feelings for Sam started years ago and he can’t imagine turning back. “lilmizltnbolt huh? You’re getting witchcraft advice from porn stars now? No offense, Sam, but I don’t want to wake up with parts like you just because some chick knows a few spells and thinks the industry is unfair to women.” They’re pulled up under the hotel’s portico when Dean mumbles his retraction statement – he knows that last utterance was shallow. Sam stares out into the night, focuses on the motel’s front office so as to not smart off or roll his eyes

Dean gets out of the car, “Wait right there, don’t get out yet,” walks around the vehicle, opens the passenger door to let Sam out. It doesn’t occur to him what he’s doing until he looks down at Sam, still seated and blinking back tears of amusement. “Oh for fucks sake, not a word. Hurry it up so we can get a room and do this mojo.” He leaves Sam to his laughing hysterically, walks to the front office.

+

The night shift desk clerk looks up from her latest edition of ‘In Style’, finger straightens her bangs and adjusts her suit, seeing a customer walk in to the lobby looking ragged and exhausted. No sooner than he hits the lobby, a younger man hurries through the sliding doors to catch up to him. Krys takes a few precious seconds to look closer, sure ogle whatever, and she’s going to also go with handsome, rugged, no-good swinging dicks like her dad always warned her and her sisters about.

Krys has seen a lot of men walk through those doors, not too many better looking than these two but there have been a few. She boasts with pride on her ability to act professional around these type men, even though she’s squealing like a lovesick teenager on the inside. Tonight is not going to be one of those nights though, as she starts as soon as she sees every square inch of the handsome standing in front of her--her desk--waiting for her to get her act together. “Evening, how may I hold,” her elbow jams into a folder as she cringes back in embarrassment, “excuse me, help. How may I help you gentlemen tonight?”

The light brown haired one - keeps it short and spiky, pretty green eyes that glint for crying out loud - hands her a credit card, leans over the desk to get a peek at her nametag. “Hey, Krys.” Eyes drag slowly up onto her face and there’s a play of lips and a flick of emotions before he transitions into an easy smile, still draped across the desk separating them. “We need a room. Two queens. Non-smoking if you don’t mind, hun.”

With that last he winks, which yeah, could be viewed a little lounge lizard but on him she thinks--shit, is it hot in here? Seriously, did they turn the heat up?

The taller one - taller being relative because they’re both that really amazing height that can make most women feel safe and wouldn’t it be great to be safe and tucked in between these two - he gets this worried expression, his hands fidgeting with the chained pen on the lobby desk and he leans in as well. Dark brown hair falls across his forehead, jawline so masculine it physically aches to be her right now, and he makes the move towards her, "E’scuse me ma’am, are you all right? You’re looking slightly red.” He smacks the shorter man on the arm with the back of his hand and fusses, “Back off on the flirting. I don’t think she’s doing too well.”

“No, my fault, my manners are atrocious tonight. I’ll get you set up quickly. Military or AAA?”

They both reply in kind their “no ma’ams” and the shorter man turns to check out the lobby. The taller one briefly nods then points over by the lobby’s sofa, a polite, non-verbal ‘going to sit down’, and she nods her response. The shorter man looks to her, “I’ll be right back.”

The information given her on the card and license states the man is one Mr. L. Ayne Staley, the name oddly familiar; it’s going to bug her all night. He’s huddled close to the taller one, speaking to him in hushed whispers and reaching out in a soothing manner. He rubs the other man’s shoulder in what he probably intends to be sympathy but ends up as a football offensive maneuver and makes to switch to rubbing his back but the taller man stops him. Shooting back with harsher whispers.

She makes a few more notations, clicking away the preferences into the hotel’s computer and watches curiously as the men interact with one another. Mimicking each other.

Oh.

“Ready for my signature ma’am?” Mr. Staley’s presence snaps Krys to attention as he grabs a chain-free pen from the desk’s stainless steel cup holder nearest her. She watches the taller man stand back, less than inches apart from his partner, posturing in his own defensive stance and she blanches once it hits her. He’s scoping, and she contemplates if that’s the correct word; it is and she affirms to herself that yes, he is scoping out the lobby.

For whom or what she’s no idea; she’s here by herself until one a.m. and the weary expression, guarded, and suspect has her nerves on end. It occurs to her that maybe she should stop watching all those darn A&E crime file cases. Too many true horror stories.

“All done. Thanks ma’am. Hey, Krys, have a question for you.” She nods politely, waits for him to hurry up and continue, “We haven’t stayed in a Holiday Inn for ages. My brother loves hot tea, can’t stand the frou-frou stuff myself, coffee’s my style. Is continental breakfast served here?”

Krys’s brow scrunches lightly in confusion, her pretty blond bangs swish to the side as she narrows her soft grey eyes towards the lobby’s entrance; looks around and back to the two men. The taller man isn’t paying attention, his eyes surveying the lobby still.

It’s not her place but it’s late, no one visible to her in the portico, thinks this brother must be smoking off to the side of the building, maybe lying down in the car. “I’m sorry sir, I was under the impression it would be just the two of you. That said, I can add him in, no problem.” She’s interrupted, Mr. Staley pats the desktop, pushes back and shoots his partner a look she can’t see. His partner’s face is clear as day - pinched, scowling.

The men may be gorgeous but it doesn’t excuse fighting. She anxiously taps the heel of her flats against the desk as she answers, “Your brother’s in luck sir.” She lists off the times, that they do indeed have hot tea on the menu, hopes they’re okay with the small details because her skin is crawling around them, a primal instinct rearing its head. These two are danger, not dangerous, but they’re followed by those who are and Krys wants them out of her lobby. "You’ll find a list in your room in a plastic binder labeled "Services". If you’ve any questions please feel free to call down to the desk. I’ll be here until seven and my assistant manager will be here around one a.m.” With that, she gives them a brisk nod as they’re finished bar any questions they’ve yet to ask.

“Hear that Sam,” and Mr. Staley roughly slaps the taller man’s back, gives a ruffle through the man’s, Sam’s, hair, “only the best for you, little brother.”

Totally not her fault, the slip of a gasp, and she schools her eyes onto the paperwork in front of her.

As they round the corner, Mr. Staley waves to her and gives a stern nod as Sam lopes ahead of him, shoulders hunched in, not looking back.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean slips the key card through the metal lock and the door to Room 317 swings open wide. Not their usual brand of basic stay, no mildew around the air vents to choke the airflow and on first inspection, the floors don’t have mystery pubes lying about. The suite isn’t fancy, isn’t serene, it’s functional and clean. He notices the décor right away, the neutral tans covering the walls and bathroom tile are complimented with the soft lavender and rich lemon accents adorning the bedding and it’s--it’s not terrible. There are black and white prints of various cherry blossom trees shed bare during the winter months hung here and there. Each bed has a mahogany faux headboard permanently attached to the wall, wishes they had those whenever Dean was growing up, chasing skirts.

By the time Dean sets his duffel aside and squares himself away on his bed, Sam has the hex bag open and a lighter at the ready. They waste no time setting up, performing the small spell so the evening can commence without further ado. Exhaustion and grime are taking precedence over every other urge, including conversation.

“Gonna jump in the shower. You should scrounge us up something to eat.” Dean is toeing off his jeans while he balls his shirt up and makes a basket toss into a corner over by the TV. Sam’s fine with that, runs with the hint and grabs a handful of change, exiting the room right as Dean closes the bathroom door. The shower comes on without a clank, the water is steaming, and it’s a normal hotel, one where the hot water isn't going to fade out after ten minutes. Dean steps in the huge tub, utilizes the ‘beat the hell out of you’ shower nozzle setting, water pounding his aching back. He tilts his head backwards, the spray pelting his face, and Dean's entire body shudders in relaxation.

“The hell with this pansy heat.” He turns the temperature up as hot as the faucet allows and continues to just stand there.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Three times he washes, taking care not to soap up extra, rub one off in the shower--he should get a medal for that sort of restraint--and climbs out of the tub. It’s all stupid procedure from there. He towels off, brushes his teeth, cakes on some fairly decent deodorant, screw the shave--it’ll wait and then stops. He braces his hands against the countertop, head hung and bent over the sink basin with his eyes closed and universe help him but he’s happy. He is, and it’s been bothering him the entire time in the shower, probably a lot longer if he looks at the issue closer, but he is.

Happy.

He readies himself, chastising as he piddles around, _no reason to be happy you sicko dirt bag, 'cause ya just spent an entire day feeling up your brother_.

Nope, even his silent reprimands aren’t enough to dampen his mood. This alone should be highly disturbing, this lack of concern on the subject. And yet, nothing. Sam mentioned some psychological b.s. in the car earlier, something about cognizant dissonance and whatever. It had made sense but he wasn’t’ going to give the nerd the satisfaction of agreeing. The faux granite countertop is coated in moisture and his fingertips skim towards his palms, making fists of both hands. He tries to summon up the anger he should feel over wanting something that up until a few months ago was merely a lifetime’s worth of buzzing in the back of his mind. The buzzing has intensified, he’s lit up from the inside with this need to take, and he knows. The spell didn’t work.

He knows it, feels it on a base level. It’s all him; his feelings haven’t changed in the least; the sparse time spent immersed in the shower didn’t wash away his sins, there was nothing to unbind, nothing supernatural hijacking his emotions. Dean is beyond certain it’s a perfectly natural, unnatural reaction he’s having towards his brother. More so, he has not a shadow of a doubt that if Sam consents, gives him any indication that he’s willing to try, Dean’s going to find himself with a whole new type of family to care for. He chokes out a peal of laughter, lifts his head and opens his eyes, finding his reflection in the fogged up mirror.

He doesn’t bother with wiping it clear, just catches fractured glints of himself through the swirls – skin flushed pink from the heat and steam, his lips dry and cherry red from worrying, crow’s feet prominent around his eyes, jawline stubbled and relaxed. His chest is hard lined and defined in sweat, abs – last of his body visible in the wall-to-wall mirror - a tad pudgier than last year. He knows this man’s physicality, aged and wearing it well despite all of hell’s attempts otherwise. His concern - the roles this man fills by simply existing; he has to mold those roles now, reconcile them with the emotions behind the eyes of the person staring back at him.

He pushes off the sink, stands and wraps the damp towel around his hips. Takes it nice and slow, pushes the bathroom door open to see the suite bathed in a low light coming from a large pewter table lamp. Dean leans against the doorframe, observes. The TV is on. There’s Mike Rowe involved in another occupation involving dung of course, voice filling up the room. Sam is sitting, long legs bumped up against a standard mahogany office desk.

The laptop’s unopened, packs of wheat and cheese crackers, kit kat candy bars, and Cheetos piled off to the side of it, and Sam has his eyes shut, head back against the black leather seat. He’s swiveling the chair languidly side to side, left arm braced on the metal armrest and the fingers of his right hand are lazily tracing small figures around his mid-section. Dean’s throat catches as he sees the black crew neck tee Sam’s wearing; one of their many Hane’s pack of four and tagless, and it’s hiked up in front. Dean has this unhindered view, rare and gorgeous, of Sam relaxed.

He’s peaceful, even if it’s for one stupid night. Sam is aware of him. Dean knows it like he knew Sam was back in the suite; they’re both convinced they’re molecularly equipped with gps – consider it a curse, a blessing, a norm. There’s no acknowledgment of his presence though, and Dean’s new found hedonistic personality trait finds this situation completely unacceptable.

Sam’s side rocking slows to a halt as he senses Dean walk up beside him. He hums his hello, makes a mindless waving gesture towards the junk food without bothering to open his eyes. Dean nods, an entire conversation not worth saying aloud all conveyed to the side of Sam’s head. Mind made up, Dean grasps the office chair’s handles, yanking it away from the room’s desk and spins it so that Sam is facing him and the beds.

Sam grunts, Dean’s actions near giving him a minor heart attack. “The hell dude!”

Dean watches--watches his pulse, the accelerated throb in Sam’s neck a slight exaggeration of its regular pace and Dean's comfortable with that. After all, he wants Sam breathless, not ill. Sitting straight up, Sam is able to lean his upper body forward, position his mouth – set in a terse, thin line – mere inches from Dean’s abs. All Dean would need do is press forward and Sam’s lips would be on him. It requires a massive reserve of willpower for Dean to reel himself in and he’s failing – fantasy images of filthy wet lips, Sam begging for it; Dean has to stop himself from taking what he wants. What he wants is a willing partner and smacking Sam in the face with a hard-on won’t garner him any favors. It will, however, go on a burgeoning wish list.

“Dean? I asked you a question. What the hell is going on?” Sam’s tone is focused, a hint of anger in his eyes mixed with a touch of pure curiosity. Dean zeros in on the latter, notices Sam’s cheeks are the same pink his were, stepping out of the shower. Totally counterproductive thinking but Dean is hyper-aware of his own interests; not a doubt in his mind that he’s going to love learning, on a daily basis, what all makes Sam turn that fantastic shade of blush.

Naming this new territory is a vast understatement, as this is so many levels beyond the norm of his hetero ways he’s amazed getting hard is even an option at this point. That’s okay though, he’ll store that bit of roundabout thinking for later. For now, Dean sees this man in front of him, muscles schooled and stacked--not the little kid Dean raised. The man in that boy's place, he’s pure sexuality and if Dean gives himself some leeway, he can see in his mind’s eye the persona Sam has crafted himself into.

Sammy, that exasperating pain-in-the-ass, self-absorbed know-it-all is still buried somewhere deep in his mind’s eye and that keeps Dean’s head in the game. Sammy’s still in there and if Dean looks close enough, Sam’s eyes crackle with the remnants, hazel tattered pieces only there thanks to the sacrificing touch of an angel. What he sees isn't the same, Sam's shredded soul never truly restored with memories and behaviors quite right, but it's enough. It has to be. Hunting, hell, heaven – they’ve been through the ringer – but this, with the baby on the way and these new feelings, Dean wants a chance on living, wants more than this survival and despair of the _once was_ 's and the _could-have-been_ 's.

He stands there hoping, waiting for Sam to make the first move. Sam, he doesn’t disappoint, reads Dean like the New York Times on an easy breezy Sunday. Strong hands land on Dean’s waist, thumbs toying with the edges of the fluffy towel wrapped there, and Sam makes a throaty noise of disdain. Concern colors his face and he eyes Dean, speaks just as he yanks the towel loose and lets it slide down over Dean’s ass and thighs, paying no mind as it falls into a cottony lump on the floor.

“Stupid. This--insane notion. You’ve no idea what you’re setting loose, Dean. What the hell am I thinking?” Sam’s hands tremble. They’re calloused and dry, skim roughly from the front to the back of Dean’s thighs, fingers disturbing the soft blond hairs along the way until finding purchase from behind. There’s no more trembling, Sam’s courage getting stronger by the second, as those fingers slip between Dean’s thighs from behind. “For starters, that spell may take time to complete, we don’t know. You willing to chance waking up in the morning with this on your conscience?” Dean makes a sound to give voice of protest, agreement or denial--he has no clue--and he tips forward, his balance off as Sam’s fingers dig into the sensitive spots on the inside of his thighs. He quickly gets that Sam is forcing his legs apart and his hands grapple towards Sam’s shoulders to keep himself upright. “Then there’s the whole, ‘This is my brother Dean. My brother who’s straight as an arrow’." Dean thinks his brain might short circuit – Sam’s mouth is right on top of his junk, breath dampening his short hairs. Dean finds himself summoning images of sagging tits, otherwise he’ll have a hell of a lot to apologize for when he pries Sam’s mouth open, rides his face within an inch of his life. “Are you even listening?” Sam cuts through, a sharp crack followed by an annoying pain that gets Dean's undivided attention. Dean’s eyes grow wide as he jams his hips forward at the impact, the hot sting radiating off his backside.

“I was asking you questions, Dean, and instead of answers, I get what I assume is your ‘O’ face and a hard dick in mine.” Sam sounds livid and that is not at all how Dean wants Sam to feel, per se. It seems his body is willing to reap the benefits of an angry Sam. If he even had a choice that is as his feet are being prodded backwards by Sam’s and Sam’s hands…

“God damn it Sam. Motherfucker…” Dean doesn’t breathe as he’s literally tugged down to his knees, Sam’s left hand engulfing his sac completely and pulling. Dean may have underestimated his introverted brother, the one who currently has him firmly by the short and curlies. It’s painful, Sam’s not being overly gentle as he guides him slowly down, and when he’s released his balls ache with a deep throbbing. Dean is positioned exactly where he belongs, Sam notes. Where he belongs, on his knees, and oh how that's wrong. Sam can't give a good damn. He doesn't let his anger get the best of him, seats himself further back in the chair, pulling Dean into the wide vee splay of his legs. “Your one and only chance to back the fuck off.” Sam leans in and whispers the words across the bridge of Dean’s nose, drags out the sounds so that all Dean can do is rut against thin air. “Think you can spend all day with your tongue down my throat, then walk in here half naked,” Sam’s words are weapons--fuck but Dean needs, needs for Sam to take the controls, green light any further actions, “Flounce around, rile me up? Tell me something, Dean,” there’s a brief confusion in his mind as Sam takes Dean’s hands in his own, places them on Sam’s thighs.

Sam releases him, uses his hands to cup the sides of Dean’s head. He’s stronger than a woman, strength unchecked when it comes to each other, and Dean will be feeling each fingertip’s impression in the morning. He’s manhandled forward, forehead raised to press against Sam’s lowered one. “Ever let a guy fuck you, Dean? Ever cave, wrap this mouth of yours around someone’s cock?” Dean’s knees burn already, he's jittery in his own skin, and there’s some fucked out bastard in the room choking out _no_ to Sam’s questions.

The answers must appease. “Sooo, you want to remedy that, is that it? All right-- _brother_. I think it’s about time we learn what these hands were really made for.” Sam releases one side of his face, grabs a hand and laces their fingers, lowers them to his crotch.

Dean’s head swims violently as he tries to find his voice. He’s a lot put out by himself, this stupid inclination as of late to be submissive to his younger brother’s wants surprising him. That is until he feels coarse denim over an impressively thick bulge. He’s guided upwards and to the left, and holy hell, he has no idea what to do with the intimate knowledge that Sam dresses to the left.

The moisture in his mouth is gone, and he's waiting for the blood to stop surging south, the heat from Sam’s dick under his hand a shock. Sam continues to move them, pawing and edging his junk and all Sam does is head butt Dean for his attention. Sam’s dick is interested but he’s no more than half-hard, that there will be more of this under his hands if he follows his instincts is insane. How does Sam look lengthened fully, how thick? How much of Sam could he take? How similar are they? Too many questions and Dean’s own prick is standing proud, the length flush to his abs. Turns out, only a small amount of ammo is needed to get Dean to begging, sputtering like a jackass.

“Never had another guy. Not ever, Sam. Told you that night you went off with that cocky son of a bitch, I don’t care to share.” And oh, but fuck him royally does he ever know this voice that won’t stop happening. It’s the same voice Lacy Potaine eked out of him in the back of her late daddy’s old Ford pick-up in some swampy backwoods Louisiana town. He told John he’d been seeing a bunch of different girls during that time but Lacy, that girl fucked him high and dry. She had him swearing like a sailor each time, had techniques and a small dominant streak that made his body lock up.

It’s the same chewed-up textured voice Cassie drug out of him many years later when she rode him so hard his hipbones were bruised. She’d cuffed him to the bed and had him confessing to all the angels he’d only read about at the time. He’d said it, told her he loved her while pressing in hard on those same bruises after they’d made love and him getting himself lost in thick, curly hair. Loved her.

Her. Never another man. Well, always Sammy. But not Sammy, not like this. It’s Sam, the guy whose knees he’s between, begging to suck his dick--it’s Sam he loves.

Sam hears Dean’s choked off sob, moves their fingers to the metal zipper of his jeans, unfastens, pushes down hard against his length. Dean flinches in sympathy until he hears Sam groan, pressing up into the scrape of metal. The thought of Sam getting off on flickers of pain sends a jolt of want through Dean, has him reaching to grab himself to stroke or strip--needs the contact on his hanging prick as he turns his face into the hand still cupping it.

“Okay, yeah…hold on Dean. C’mere.” And Sam isn’t a bastard. He sees the spark of want warring with confusion in Dean’s eyes so he pushes up, lifts Dean’s face up. Lowers his lips to brush lightly, slowly around Dean’s mouth, licks the taste of Dean right off him. Hotel soap, salt, mint--tastes explode across Sam’s tongue as he nips and swipes his tongue here and there, a gradual ease to the method that’ll send Dean insane soon enough.

“You got yourself a handful, big brother. I’m experienced, but you, oh man. And here you are, asking for it.” Dean’s thoughts race a mile a minute, not backing down, acting the shy violet not an engrained personality trait. He is completely out of his element here and the only way he knows to deal with that is tackle it head on. Bad pun considering.

Sam can tell the moment Dean settles so that his innate strong will kicks in. He waits for the resolve to filter through; this is Dean’s call and Sam doesn’t want to push him farther than he’s willing. Waiting, however, doesn’t mean he won’t push the boundaries, see where Dean’s edges meld and bend. He laughs across his brother’s lips, says, “I’m betting you’re a quick learner. I’ve been called a pushy bottom on more than one occasion. You even know what that is, Dean?”

Sam lets the question sink in as he leans away from pinked lips, reclines into the chair so that his hips move forward, crotch on display, and legs widened further. Sam’s head rests against the leather seat as he looks down on Dean, amazed at the sight of his brother kneeling there, “You want it so fuckin' bad, come get it.” And right as Dean moves to tuck himself into the vee of Sam’s legs, he’s grabbed up and forward by his freaking neck.

"Sammm.” It’s low, a warning for something he can’t explain, something too bright to look into--burn him up from the inside out.

“Pushy bottom, Dean. I expect an answer, not one of your slutty little moans.” Dean’s legs ache from the stretched position he's placed in and he’s no clue as to what Sam is asking. Straight as an arrow doesn’t mean stupid but Dean’s relegated his sexual endeavors, porn and otherwise, to strict guy/girl lingo. Last time he used that Urban dictionary site they’d been trying to figure out a victim’s loose terminology. Dean had read the paragraph aloud and freaking stuttered, Sam ribbing him for days after.

Dean’s musings come to an abrupt halt, the feel of Sam hitching his hips, his brother’s covered dick in his space and reality clicks in place. Sam may talk a mean game, but he acts like a bitch in heat. And man or no, Dean understands the language.

It’s a switch, a bulb going off, Sam seeing Dean’s knack for taking control of a situation that has him uttering, “That’s what I thought, Dean. This doesn’t scare you away, I can think of a few other things. We’ll see.”

The hold on his neck is loosened, and Dean falls back on his heels to compensate, widens his knees on the carpet to steady himself. He flushes when at the praises being given to him for staying there like a good boy, the words shooting lava through his veins, and he stays until he’s motioned forward by a crook of a finger. They're at an impasse, Sam needs Dean to clear the last hurdle of his own volition. “Dean, you know. No grief, nothing to prove. You know.”

He does. Dean knows he can stop this forward momentum into crazy, knows this changes everything and nothing at all. They’re still Sam and Dean, brothers, friends, soul mates. He knows they have miles to go before Sam is remotely comfortable with this but he reaches forward, moves the flap of boxer brief aside to touch his brother. There’s a moment of hesitation but Dean’s not in the least shocked at the sight, touch and feel; the only disparity between this and holding his own dick is that this is wrong, and that Sam is slightly wider, less in length.

“Sam, fuck. This is, I don’t know how so no compl--” words not stopping and a flare inside Sam snaps, too far gone now to quit unless Dean actually calls it quits. He hisses at the touch, oversensitive cock responding to the touch, an emotional wreck, and he jerks Dean the remaining way forward. Sam grunts so loud he sounds like he’s in pain, Dean’s lips pressed against the leaking slit of his dick.

Surprise takes him, passes Dean by, and despite his tendency to panic when face-to-face with other men’s private parts, he’s okay. Of course he’s tasted himself, so he swipes his tongue across a dewdrop spot of precum and lets familiarity hit him. Moving, opening his mouth, he takes in the head, senses giving him a run-down of how this is going. How Sam smells, the thick flesh of the head an unmistakable sensation on his tongue, sweat more pungent rather than the familiar copper slick of a woman.

The taste isn't off-putting all though it is a little bitter, the tang of it singing on his taste buds as he hollows his cheeks – porn stars everywhere, big round of thank you's – and he sinks lower, lips stretching around the girth. He can't go far, gag reflex and all, but the feel, the weight and the underside vein as it pulses against the tip of his tongue--it all suits his addictive tendencies. Dean relaxes, allows himself to be pushed down, controlled with a gentle touch. It's odd to him, unsure of what to do with his hands and while he is typically cavalier during sex, here he’s involved, focused with the urge to make small movements up and down Sam’s shaft. When Sam ruts up, his dick making room where there is none, not without choking, Dean freezes.

Sam blurts out an apology but instead of pulling off he hunches over, head as far down by Dean’s face as he can. His long elbows and arms cocoon Dean’s head and shoulders, keeping his hips motionless. He pleads instructions into Dean’s ear, “Don’t pull off, Dean. Please, I won’t do that again, promise…shit. Breath through your nose, man. Think of what you like and go with it.” A push to the back of Dean’s head brings home the plea. It's not enough to slip his cock further down Dean's throat, but it's enough to get him to move.

Dean's mouth burns with the stretch, the column of flesh unforgiving and he gives a garbled _mphmm_ , places one hand on the base of Sam’s cock because there’s no doubt whatsoever--deep-throating will positively not be happening tonight.

“Ohhh shit. Made for this, dude. So perfect the way you take my cock." As Dean inches forward, lips meeting his hand wrapped near the base, the dick in his mouth hits the back of his throat. Sam’s length is his own and he wonders in a far off corner of his mind how the women who've blown him did this. He gags, throat trying to seize up. His eyes water and he needs to breath so he pushes up only to meet the resistance of Sam’s hand.

“Quick breath, Dean, but I want you back on me. And once you're down,” thumbs part Dean’s lips, slip beneath to glide over his teeth and force a space between his tongue and Sam's dick, “Once you're down, I want you to start a rhythm.”

Dean’s totally unprepared, thought he could do this and come out swinging like a natural but this, it's nerve-wracking. Sam can feel the tension in the circle of lips engulfing him. Dean’s uncomfortable and that won’t do. Not at all. So he lifts away, slips his thumbs free, cups Dean’s jaw and moves the man’s mouth off his prick. Watery eyes greet him, Dean's face jagged edges, angry; he lifts his big brother up to him, searches his mouth to chase his own taste. It's not a tease, Sam wants to soothe and settles into slight licks and nips. He fucks his tongue in, sets up shop in the wet heat of Dean’s mouth trying to kiss all the worries away.

When he finally releases, the want is devastating. He doesn’t care what happens, but it has to happen now and hopes to hell Dean’s still on board. “Have to let go for me. Gonna fall with me?”

Dean fucking whimpers when Sam finds the tip of his tongue, _fuck yeah, right there_ , and sucks it in like it’s his to keep. And he’s no qualms with this, and he’s a-okay with what that thought does to him. Tongue free from Sam’s mouth, he gasps out, "Have to.", his hand surging to grab his own shaft.

“Pull on your sac first. Stroke yourself, want to see it, then stop. Pull on ‘em again, keep ‘em tight until I say stop.” He must not get the attention he craves because Sam gets louder, “Dean, if you don’t, I will.” Dean nods before his head is tugged up by enormous mitts, the threat greeting him in Sam's eyes real.

“Saamm,” and Dean fucking whimpers as he reaches a hand down between the chair and his abs, bypasses his dick and wraps his fist around his nuts. It's obvious, Dean forcing out a choked cry when he pulls down, releases and thumbs over his dick. The cock in his face jumps as he strips his own once, nice and long, squeezes the glans. He can barely see through the tight space of them but there it is, a string of precum drools down, hangs from his slit without touching the floor.

“Unh, god once, Sam, one more.” He’s begging, not entirely sure of himself, his dick a constant ache between his legs. One more strip, let his dick drool, so fucking close.

All joking tones are gone from Sam's voice when he snaps, “Don’t you fucking dare!”, and jerks Dean’s face to meet his. The look he sees is memory, Sam so goddamned sure of himself, and for all the dominating tone in his commands there’s not an ounce of anything but care and concern in his eyes. Dean shakes, overwhelming need to stroke and suck, and he’s dying a slow death; tortured as Sam massages an index finger gently across Dean’s temple--reassuring.

“I know, but no. Want your whole body to give it up, just have to trust me.” They’re both panting and Dean has never in his life heard this side of his baby brother directed his way. Instructions, demands, they start an aching need skittering along his spine in anticipation. He's being torn apart, Sam putting his foot down, “You’re allowed one stroke. One. Then I want you to roll your sac then pull. Hard, Dean. Can’t follow, we stop.” And with that last bit, he's kissed. Tiny presses, maddeningly sweet. It's nothing of his normal tastes, his body rejecting the fluffy romantic gestures except the press of Sam’s lips everywhere at once - every small touch – sets his skin on fire.

“Yeah, I can follow, Sam. Don’t stop, just don’t. I promise.” Thing of it is, he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for anymore. Doesn’t matter because Sam has this, is going to tell him, and Dean is a frickin’ master in the sack so hell yes, he can fucking knock this outta the park.

“Spread your legs. I want to see you, watch you suck me off and edge yourself. “

Dean spreads, balances with his hand still wrapped loose and careful around the base of Sam’s dick. One stroke. One stroke is all it takes to get another blurt of precum dripping. One stroke and then he cups his own sac completely, moans at the touch as he flexes his fingers around the hanging globes. Showing off, he rolls them, balls so incredibly vulnerable, and squeezes. The vice grip alone has his other hand tightening around Sam, only Sam shouts, "Yes!” as Dean yanks down on his balls with force.

“Fuck." It's a hiss. Dean’s blinded by the pain brought about by his own volition, only able to swear the one word.

A hand grabs him around the back of his neck and presses him on, lowers him until he's nowhere to go but down on Sam's dick. He's not so unaware, so caught off guard as before. He uses the brief moment of anticipation, struggles back into the pressure to wet his lips, actually spit on the length he's about to blow. A little more resistance buys some time so that he can suck Sam down slow, form a vacuum around the base flare of the plump head. Makes a show of it now, gets the spit in his mouth pooling around the tight ring of his lips, opens as best he can to let the mess drool sloppily down the silky flesh.

The top of his hand around Sam is soaked, squelches against Dean’s lips as he’s set up a rhythm. It’s insane, waiting his turn leaving him rock hard, and he grunts out, the prick in his mouth hefty, each pass down becoming easier to handle. Sam’s smell assaults him as he maps out the veined length. There's no denying this is happening, what he's doing as Sam lets loose a barrage of nonsense as he tenses and surges under Dean’s tongue. He shows remarkable restraint, and Dean is keenly aware of his brother’s balls pulling up tightly.

Sam just barely makes out, “Let go, get yourself there,” and there’s no telling Dean twice. He massages his abused balls, pain a brilliant spark against the back of his eyelids and it courses through him. He gets it now, the pleasure in the pain that he’s supposed to understand, so he bumps Sam’s abs mindfully; lets him watch as he rolls them, squeezes, yanks.

Dean can feel it, a slight power shift as Sam loses a bit of his control. He frees his balls and heeds the need in his own heavy length, swinging lewdly between his legs. With a twist of his wrist to slick his own cock with precum, he strokes himself to a steady rhythm. His throat finally relaxed, Dean swallows down as much of Sam as he can and begins to hum.

Sam twitches violently. “Jesus Christ, Dean. Don’t fuckin' stop, baby. Don’t...don’t,” and he begins to fuck up in earnest, chair underneath him creaking from the rocking weight. In fact, it’s really starting to swivel and Dean recognizes the issue. While Sam might like it rough, Dean would prefer not to knick him with his teeth. The next stripe down his cock brings Dean’s mouth popping lewdly off of Sam’s, and he bodily shoves the chair firmly against the desk. Sam’s a ragged mess of limbs, emotions and moral center shot to hell and driven now by pure physical need. He makes a grab for Dean and yanks him forward to his lap.

Dean wants to laugh because _really_ , Sam is a needy slut and this new idea of his brother thrills him to no end. The problem is, he has the matter of getting them both off and judging by the increased thickness and swelling happening between his lips, he’s willing to bet that Sam’s ready to spill. He sets up a blinding pace, a litany of filthy noises, dripping spit down and over Sam’s balls and Sam’s eyes are open, staring down as Dean looks up at him through dirty blond lashes.

“Oh. fuck. Dean…Gonna…..you want it?” Dean’s impressed the guy was able to say that much. Hell, he couldn’t find the words even if he wasn’t throat deep on Sam. He lowers his lashes and sucks harder, nodding, lips a vice around the prick filling him to the brim. And he hopes Sam’s on board with the whole _I’m not stopping, do what you have to_ nonverbal cue.

“Yeah, knew you’d love it. Cockslut, Dean, brilliant mouth of yours.” Sam ruts up hard, once, twice. Dean gags on it, prick slamming into all the space at the back of his throat. His stomach lurches and he moves away, away and back from the sensation. Sam, however, is not on board with the plan and seizes a good bit of hair from the back of Dean’s head.

“Uh uh,” Sam pants, “don’t you fucking move.”

Sam’s other hand - the kinky little shit - grabs hold of his cock right by Dean’s lips and shoves a finger in the space between. Forces it into his mouth. Dean’s thrown, nonverbal noises of protest as his throat flutters around his gagging. Sam goes rigid with the feeling, and then shoves a second finger in alongside the other.

Mouth stuffed, eyes running, and Dean is twisted around the axle. He's hurting and turned on so hard he jerks forward into his palm, strips and cups himself just as Sam had told him to. His body locks up, it’s not enough to get off on and he wants to curse a blue streak. Sam arches, plum head finally sinking down past all limits, down into the abused channel of his throat, and Dean’s mind is a chaotic mess. He tries to breath through his nose to keep the panic at bay, his throat spasming wildly at the huge intrusion. His lips feel as if they’ll split and this, right now, is possibly the hottest fucking thing he’s ever felt in his life, god help him.

With an attempt to breathe he grapples blindly, eyes closed, clenching at Sam's legs to pull free. One gag. Dean’s eyes blow wide as Sam’s climax hits. The first shot of cum pulses straight down his throat, molten hot and salty bitter; it’s not the best thing Dean has ever tasted, his own no better, but the taste won’t turn him off. The second, third, fourth – kid wasn’t joking when he said it was a big load – they’re less intense, coating his mouth tacky and there’s spooge dripping down the intrusive fingers and leaking out past his lips. Dean’s cock jumps hard as he feels Sam’s cum pool over his chin, a splash of it and spit hitting his chest.

Sam's back is curved, muscles in spasm while running the course of his orgasm but it’s short lived and Dean’s mouth is suddenly empty. There’s a rush of air and cursing as Sam scoots forward in the chair and directs "Up.”

Momentarily confused, leaking everywhere, ass clenched tight, and his thighs tremble as he uses Sam’s to clamber off his knees and stand up. Totally worth the effort as it looks as if Sam’s about to return the favor and that right there is all right, all right. Sam is beet red, sweat sticking to his cheeks and forehead, shivering a touch from being sucked off. This doesn’t stop him though as he grabs Dean’s ass with one hand. Dean watches from above as Sam brings the other hand up, fingers still slick with spit and cum and shows him the mess and grins.

The hell is he…? Oh. Fuck his life.

Sam licks Dean’s dick like it's candy coated, swallows him down like he was born for it, releases his hold on Dean's cheeks and cups his balls instead. He makes a _w_ with his fingers and thumb and separates them, squeezing and rolling the nuts back and forth. Sam’s eyes cut up at him, mouth a perfect seal around his shaft; Dean doesn’t look down, can’t. He’s all of two seconds away from cumming when he feels it.

Sam’s a tricky bastard, showed him those fingers, sucked him down and made him forget. Until now that is. There’s white hot on his cock but the crease to his ass is being parted and a slick finger wastes no time in rubbing across his hole. Dean clenches hard, hole puckering tight because this is new new new. Sam doesn’t relent, picks up the pace of his sucking and humming along Dean’s length, tongue staying wide and flat against the glans and veined underside and that’s--Dean suddenly can’t fucking breathe right.

The room has to be about nine hundred degrees, his toes are actually curling into the carpet from the intense pressure circling his hole. Sam’s finger makes another swipe around the tiny muscle, presses up on the rim, not in but enough for Dean to lock up in worry. Dean moves forward, trying to find his voice but Sam backs him up, pops off him so loudly they both jump.

“Shh, you okay? Too much?” Voice raw, concerned, but that finger is still there, an unforgettable presence.

Dean doesn’t need to be babied and he is not shy, it’s not his style, but this letting Sam take control; it does things to him. Certain uncertainties they'll have to discuss. Later, when he doesn’t have Sam’s finger almost up his ass. He shakes his head _no_ and shoves his hips forward.

Sam laughs at him. “Encino man, huh? That’s good though, because now, now I want you to fuck my face.”

Dean makes to talk but he stutters, tries again. “Sam, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re having a hard enough time as is with keeping stuff down.” Dean totally rocks, he has the tiniest bit of brain function and he's using it to make sure Sammy’s okay. Because, again, he rocks.

“Oh shut up, jerk. As if I couldn’t wrestle you off.” Dean’s treated to another painful smack on the ass and it--it short circuits whatever mental capacity he did have left. Grabbing Sam’s girly hair, he gives him what he asked for, slams in and takes the scrape of teeth with the red-hot sting from his ass, stills and groans long and deep.

“Got no idea Sam, no idea how good your mouth is. Illegal, dude. Ought to be illegal.” It is. It is and with that, Sam’s finger shoves up past the tight ring of his hole in sync with Dean rutting forward, his pubes scratching up against Sam’s nose. Good, because his backside freaking burns, a thick finger rubbing him from the inside and he can’t decide if he likes it.

 _MMphh_ sounds like a protest until he looks down and no, that’s Sam bitching, his brother’s eyebrow arched. Apparently Sam isn’t keen on him drifting off into his head while he's hard at work and Dean makes to remedy this immediately. He picks up a rhythm, honey smooth to so harsh Sam's forced back into the chair. A jab to the knee has him releasing the death grip he has on Sam’s hair so instead he grips the top of the chair. The position has him pinning Sam’s head between the chair and himself, and his knees bump up against the metal armrest overhangs as he semi-straddles Sam’s legs.

It starts as a tingle in the base of his balls. Fluttering squeezes up his abs and there’s a rush of warmth up his arms and chest; his orgasm edging his senses. Sam notices, the frustration evident in his mouth so relaxes his cheeks a tad just as Dean starts to feel the first of his muscles lock tight on Sam’s finger. The finger, Sam the tricky bastard, fills his ass. It startles him more than anything, the crook of it hitting what he logically knows to be his prostate. The flash of pleasure side blinds him, delicate rubs across the damn thing in perfect precision and it’s the last trigger.

Dean’s orgasm is ripped from him, a tingle coursing up from his toes, sends a wave of electricity over every nerve ending, his hole cinched tight on Sam’s finger and he has Sam’s mouth stuffed full of swollen cock. He hopes Sam expected this because he sure as hell doesn’t have the chance to warn him, dick jumping with each pulse as he creams his mouth.

“Sam, sorry. Oh god, so good.” His body gives twitchy jerks and it stammers his speech, “Sorry, didn’t warn…god.”

Sam stills his tongue, let’s Dean’s cum pool there without swallowing because yeah, he has no intentions of challenging his morning sickness. To warn, he pats Dean’s thigh, gingerly pulls his finger free while Dean’s riding out the last of his orgasm. Pulling off the softening prick, he reaches over to the table to grab tissues, spits into a few of them. Dean is coming down hard when Sam pulls free, causes him to shiver, groan from the over-stimulation.

It’s Sam’s turn to startle, nearly cracking his head on Dean’s collarbone as he’s bodily lifted, Dean’s grip strong under his arms. Sam’s head swims, the abrupt change in position threatening his stomach. He falters, looking into Dean’s face and Dean stabilizes him. It’s easy peasy to lean down and give a peck to his brother’s lips, exhaustion evident in the simple gesture.

The pat on the head, the smell of sex flooding the room, it has the brothers butting their heads together, Dean commenting, “We need to shower. I’m gross. You’re, oh man, you’re sticky. And I’m tired - really freakin' tired.” A nod of agreement from Sam has Dean slowly spinning him around, fingers on the sweaty slope of Sam’s spine, and heads them towards the bathroom.

Sam’s not sure how this will all play out; he’d taken a huge risk allowing it to happen in the first place and takes Dean not running off somewhere in the Impala as a good thing.

“Not leaving?” Sam asks.

“What was that?” They’re in the bathroom, Dean’s voice muffled behind the cloth shower curtain as he turns on the shower’s tap, steam pouring thick in the air. Sam is weak down to his bones and he’s certain he’ll need to lean against the wall in order to wash up.

“Nothing, it was nothing. I’m just – I don’t know, happy. I think. Haven’t been there in forever. Whatever, we reek.” His face is in his armpit and he moans; he figures his brother’s sense of smell is shot to hell, no way he could get with this and not gag. There’s a hearty laugh, booming through the medium sized space because it’s true, they stink of cum. Their sweaty, matted hair only adding to the bitter aroma around them so Dean climbs in, asks, “Coming in princess? Not going to help you with everything.” But he does, he’s a liar. Sam can’t move, his feet not co-operating in the least when he’s grabbed mid-bicep and pulled behind the shower curtain. “Get in then, dork.” They step under the massaging spray, Dean bringing Sam towards him, back to chest. His limp dick rests snug between Sam’s ass cheeks, waiting for Sam to jerk away but it’s not the case so he sets about lathering his hands with the expensive body wash his brother splurges on. It’s Old Spice, he's thankful to not smell mango-ish or something else stupid, and Sam groans his appreciation. It’s a chain reaction, Dean’s soft but he fills enough to twitch in response to the sound, Sam grinding back.

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m old.” Sam emerges from his Zen like scrub down, mutters a _yep_ , and Dean pops him on the head. “Oh screw that noise, you’re an old fart too, Sam. No one’s getting it up again tonight.” And if Dean proceeds to spend an obscene amount of time lathering and soaping Sam thoroughly, well, there are no complaints and no one’s telling.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Sam makes a guttural grunt, something about wanting to rinse off, so he’s maneuvered into the spray one last time before Dean sets about getting them out and drying them off. Dean would find the actions ridiculous, ludicrous even, if he hadn’t seen first-hand the toll of sheer exhaustion the pregnancy brings about. Both men are allowing the extra attention to slide, Dean doing so without an ounce of regret.

Stumbling out of the bathroom, Sam throws his towel in the room’s corner where Dean’s shirt lays crumpled and falls straight into bed. Dean eyes both queen beds and evaluates his next move. It’ll be a weird enough in the morning for them--the hunt still on for David, this new direction they’re taking. He wants Sam’s advice, hates that he craves it as much now as always. He’s willing to start now, talk or research, but Sam’s sacked out, all soft snores and face smashed against his pillow.

It’s a quarter past two a.m. when Dean crawls into bed, yanking the covers down under legs and feet still splayed on top of the sheets. He pulls the warm sheets back up and over, settling onto his right side. His arm is crooked, elbow on the pillow and head cradled in his hand as he looks down the length of Sam’s body lying next to him.

It’s a solid twenty minutes when Dean finally settles, resting on his side. Two minutes past that before he summons the courage to crook his legs behind Sam’s, the word _spooning_ grating through his mind.

A mere five seconds, not contemplating the word _cuddling_ , seeking the area he’s fascinated with and cupping the barely there swell, breathes out heavily against Sam’s neck. The room's alarm clock blinks three a.m. as Dean loses the fight to stay awake, tucked into Sam’s back, dick cushioned in the cleft of his backside, surrounding him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm transferring from one account to another, the other is acting @$%*! Please bear with me.

Habits are habits and as it turns out, Sam waking up wrong and out of sorts does not change this ideal simply because he and his brother sucked each other off the night before. His internal alarm clock is working without a hitch even though he’s still exhausted and no more ready to wake than the dead. What’s more, he’s troubled by his current--condition.

Thinking on falling into the bed last night, he’d just assumed Dean would need space. This is apparently not the case and, in fact, upon wiggling to move away…just to the left …just….so…then yeah, Dean moves right along with him. Sam is desperately trying to comprehend Dean’s crazy nocturnal spooning skills when he squirms backwards and encounters nothing less than - and no, he will not use that term lightly considering the muscular memory ache of his jaws – Dean’s morning wood. The a/c kicks in with the most delicate click, the room a shade past warm and Sam’s thankful for the wonders of a modern hotel room. Dean isn’t a source of tremendous heat but Sam consistently runs hot as a furnace and the wisps of hair on his thighs stick to his brother’s legs as he pulls away.

There is the option to freak out; Sam really feels it in his best interest overall. If Dean had stopped for a moment, if he’d listened to the points his brother was struggling to make, then yeah, he’s more than aware that the previous night’s debauchery would’ve been less...

...he can’t even think of a proper word. Not with Dean’s dick wedged up tight between the crease of his cheeks.

What was he thinking?

Surprisingly, Dean and his genitalia take a backseat to the least of Sam’s worries as his back is nothing but a solid wall of moisture, the hair framing his face glued about where his sideburns start, and his chest is covered in beads of perspiration. Not even the sudden chill in the room is enough to prevent what Sam knew would happen the moment his body took stock all its senses.

The problem progresses, his vision swimming back and forth and he tastes salt as he nervously licks his lips, the tiny droplets of sweat lining his lips assaulting his taste buds. His stomach gurgles once and he’d bet the farm that the warning is a freebie. A one-time alarm as his concerns and stress over the situation are doing nothing by way of calming himself down.

Unfortuneatley he's not facing the nightstand. Rather, it’s the beige toned, satiny finish of a wall he’s turned towards; his bed is the farthest from the room’s door as per Dean’s typical over-protectiveness. The illusion of space closing in on him has him jumpy. What Sam wants is to be on his feet, heading to the bathroom where there’s a sink and his bland organic toothpaste. It’s a fact, he will be retching soon and if he doesn’t get out of bed to accomplish this, Dean may or may not be livid. Sam thinks it depends on how happy his brother would be to wake up covered in bile and the thought seizes him.

Scratch that, at this rate, he’ll be waking Dean regardless. Sam battles an involuntary shiver when his brother’s lips graze over haphazardly against the back of his head. He feels what is most likely foul morning breath mist across his scalp in the process, and yet his body is still a fucking traitor. Sam doesn’t know of which to be more concerned – the roll in his belly similar to having dropped elevation or the immediate surge of blood rushing to his dick.

" _Mmm_ , morning. Y’up?” Dean yawns wide-mouthed against him. He isn’t an inch past half-coherent and still Sam understands his brother’s sleep talk and he grunts his reply.

He’s busy willing himself to move when he finally registers Dean’s movements; it’s too late, as one hand sticks-slides-pulls down Sam’s chest, calloused palm scratching over the browned peaks of extremely sensitive nipples, around one hip bone and before Sam can stop him, comes to rest firmly on Sam’s abs.

It’s not forceful, nothing cruel in the way Dean’s pressed against him; fact is, Sam’s stomach was primed upon waking and Dean’s hand pressing inwards is enough to hurt. It’ll come as no surprise looking back, that this particular morning was going to go down as epic Winchester fail. Sam yelps and presses backwards sharply, long legs jerking to get away from the pain. He’s sensitive, nauseated, and now there are black spots in the shapes of flickering flames formed behind his eyelids. He’s not aware of the blinding pain Dean is experiencing at the moment though he does hear the coughing up of what could possibly be a lung and some intense cursing.

The black shapes Sam sees are giving way to a wave--a tangible, could touch it if he wanted to reach out, rippling current. An hour or perhaps it’s likely to have only been a total of five minutes since he first awoke and the pain and nausea hasn’t lessened and he shoulder checks the wall as he fumbles blindly off the bed in the pitch dark of the room.

“Sonuva…mother of all the...” Dean is spitting the words, half-formed curses that fill the room.

It occurs to Sam somewhere between one half army crawling, half tripping running like a mad man towards the bathroom that Dean is hurt. That he might have maybe jammed back into his brother’s junk. Sam wants to care, he doesn’t like to hear his brother gasping in pain but he finally makes it to the head and he only has enough fortitude to send a silent prayer up to the bathroom gods: _oh thank you so much for floors that are clean and toilets that aren’t rusted brown and for the smell of bleach instead of piss and counters that are sturdy enough to grip and hang on to for dear life._

Half an hour later, Sam steps out of the shower, still feeling like a pile of dog shit. On the positive side, hey, at least he was clean. He’d managed to brush his teeth without gagging and wasn’t that a bitch to think about while scrubbing away--flashes of his brother’s dick wedged up against the back of his throat. The trials of overcoming your more sensitive gag reflex and morning sickness, techniques to engage in - deep throating your partner as a training aid.

Sam has to physically shake his head to move past that little nugget of a gem. The bathroom’s vent is silent but effective, keeping out the steam and giving him some breathing room. A wonderful thing considering Dean joins him, bumping him aside to take care of his own. Sam sidesteps and exits, giving Dean his privacy and doing it without saying a word, not even offering a courtesy nod of acknowledgement. Feeling shitty about his behavior isn’t going to solve anything on his vastly expanding plate of issues and Sam deals with it by sorting through his duffel to find clothes.

He pauses as there’s the feel of squelching between his forefingers and he cringes. The texture is eerily similar to ectoplasm and he totally expects to see black goo upon further inspection. What he finds is the remainder of a high priced lotion he’d splurged on when the itching from the pregnancy had became unbearable. It coats and moisturizes the bottom of his duffel bag along with two pairs of recently laundered briefs. Sam’s blood boils at the thought of how the bottle cost him a small fortune--get what you pay for--and now he was going to have to spend a ridiculous amount of time wiping out his duffel and globbing as much lotion back in to the container as possible. Not to mention, laundry. Again.

He pulls out a pair of boxer briefs that aren’t ruined and is calm enough to see they’re his favorite, thankfully not covered in slime. Sure, they’re worn and faded but there’s no holes--dad was cheap but he never took too well to the boys having ratty, holey underwear. Said there was only ever supposed to be one hole in a man’s underpants and Sam's kept to that standard. Yeah, so Sam’s favored pair of soft grey ones it is then, and they still fit comfortably low on his waist but the elastic of the band is--it’s tight. Not tight enough to hurt, not enough to register more than uncomfortable, but enough to put an annoying hint of pressure on the lowest portion of his abs. Pulling them up closer to his waist makes it worse as the puffiness of his belly makes them that much tighter.

And just like that, Sam’s mood swings back towards hair trigger pissed off.

Did the boxer’s hurt? No.

Did it piss him off and make him want to rip the damn things off? Why, fuck yes it did. Piece of shit clothing and just how the hell were they supposed to afford all the new clothing he was going to need? Money was tighter than usual these days and it was only going to get worse and, wow, just fucking great!

If Sam had been paying attention while completely melting down, he would have seen Dean stop dead in his tracks in the bathroom's doorway, eerily similar to a pose he’d leant into last night. He would have been embarrassed to see that Dean wasn’t making a single move, completely silent, hoping Sam wouldn’t detect his presence.

Mood swings were not new in Sam’s repertoire and even he admitted that his pubescent phase of rebelliousness and temper tantrums had quite the bit of staying power, lasting well into his adult life.

That being said, these estrogen/progesterone based mood swings were a whole new ball game - Sam not having them terribly often but lord help the individual caught in his path when they occurred. And right now it looks as if Sam’s clothing and other assorted sundries consistently found in his duffel were suffering the brunt of this fit. Sam is emptying the bag and chucking, with force, the ruined pieces into the far corner by the head of his bed.

Duffel apparently emptied, Sam’s sour mood takes a turn towards rotten as he attempts to slide into his jeans. Oh, Dean sees the storm brewing and braces for lift-off. Sam’s skin is damp, causing a tacky pull and the jeans stick high on his thighs. Sam’s face shutters, streaming barely there curses when one toe catches on a patch of loose hem, and he stumbles forward, one hand finding purchase on the nightstand while the other catches nothing but air.

Now, now Sam’s hearing is finely tuned onto the sharp intake of breath behind him and the nervous laughter that follows. It seems to heighten his precarious position, his balance completely overthrown, toe still lodged in its denim trap, and his thighs trapped in too awkward a position of ‘pants swaddling his thighs and almost but not quite pulled up over his rear’. The combined forces added with a touch of clumsiness via the pregnancy and Sam face plants into the bed. The landing could have been soft had he had some leeway with his hands but the battle is lost and he finds his nose smooshed hard and to the right.

And that, seemingly, is fucking that.

Sam has had enough. He’d woken up sweaty and trapped in Dean’s arms, alarmingly unsure if he’d royally screwed them both up for life with last night’s events, had hugged a toilet, his piss ant clothes were scratchy and covered in goo and now his nose feels as if it's been shoved into his brain. And just when the morning’s events couldn’t become more infuriating, the universe up and throws that thinking out the window because fuck it all if the suffering of Winchesters doesn’t give the cosmos it’s very own special brand of hard-on.

Sam can literally feel it in his core. Dean is standing somewhere in his vicinity, laughing.

There’s a three-second pause and if he turns his head just so, yeah, there’s his brother sliding down the doorframe, holding his sides and gasping for air. Tears are streaming down Dean’s cheeks, his eyes squeezed shut except for when they’re not and that’s because he sees Sam.

Seeing Dean seeing Sam has all the laughter that ever was and ever will be ceasing immediately.

It’s a shame, truly, as Sam loves Dean with all his heart can muster and listening to him laugh so freely, giving it up to the air around them like it's a gift is amazing. It’s a rare occurrence, and Sam wants to take that moment, when Dean was all scrunched eyes and hyperventilating from what he found funny, and make it last for eons. Or, at least for every day for the rest of his life, whichever comes first. Dean’s mood snaps him from his thoughts, Sam starting the first tug from underneath the blanketed mood of hate.

Sam fights the comforter for a brief second, hands pushing up so that he’s in a bastardized version of a push-up pose, knees pressed tightly into the side of the bed as his feet find the floor. He pushes up and off, half-pulling but really ripping his jeans up and over his rear and buttoned. The bed is so firm it doesn’t bother to quiver and Sam is transfixed for the tiniest of moments on how fantastic a night’s sleep he could have every night on a bed like this - if his life was normal. The idea riles him for no reason, sparks a new flame amidst his lingering fury; he spins around to face down Dean.

Except, while spinning and cupping his nose (he wants to make sure there’s no blood all over the place because he’d like to not sully a hotel room with his bodily fluids for once), Sam’s other hand catches the complimentary pen on the nightstand. The action sends the pen flying, flipping in mid-air as if it’s cursed and smacks him on top of his head. He knows there’s no injury, no damage, is a measly tap, but Sam is--he’s livid.

“Damn it!” His fists ball up tightly in an attempt not to punch something.

Sam’s outburst, a roar for what it’s worth, leaves Dean rigid against the doorframe, downright thankful for his foresight to get dressed in the bathroom. Sam had some ‘things’ on his mind, issues that should just gel and mold quite nicely while Dean steps out (runs for his life) to procure some food and drink. So he does – Dean slides right back up the doorframe and collects himself, shooting one hell of a smirk at one out-of-control kid brother.

“Sam, I’m heading out while you um, do what you do to make yourself beautiful or whatever, dude. Sit down and be at – I dunno know – peace with the fricking universe or whatever it is you do to relax.” Dean stops with the room’s door just barely open behind his rear, two inches to freedom in the hotel’s hallway. He knows the only thing he’ll accomplish in staying, hovering, is to ratchet up the emotions.

“I’ve got my cell so, uh, don’t call until you can think straight. I mean, no offense and yeah, we’ll talk when I get back.” Dean speed talks his way out the door, not allowing any room for argument.

Sam’s still thinking of new and creative curses as the door latches behind his brother, wanting to drown all the nonsense out. It isn’t beneficial to continue on so childishly, afraid his blood pressure will blow sky high if he doesn’t get a grip. Mary’s side of the family, most of the women, had had enough complications with heart disease and blood pressure that John had even mentioned it. Sam was stunned his father had opened up and put the information to use as he set about researching the family’s medical records. Dean, however, carried on with his status quo, eating greasy diner food and drinking with not a care in the world.

Regardless, he knows he needs to calm down now or wind up pulling bed rest as all the research shows. It’s the right amount of common sense to get him deep breathing and settling down.

A half hour later, Sam’s as rested and put back together as can be attained. He's on the bed with his legs sprawled out in front of him while fiddling around on the internet. Websites opened to read up on pregnancy symptoms, they show which week he’s in and what women typically experience during the particular time period. It's been difficult enough trying to wrap his head around the possibility of having a womb (for all he knows at the moment, he could be pregnant in his abdominal cavity), much less having something the size of a kidney bean with an actual heart beat in there.

He’s opening up another website when he hears the key card sliding and the metallic click of the door’s lock opening. Dean’s back, face hidden partially behind loaded stacks of plates. He balances an armful of breakfast type items, carbs and more carbs. Fine for this morning because Sam isn’t sure dairy is the correct solution to feeling better.

“Hey. Uh, Dean, about earlier..” Rucking his hand through his hair, Sam wants to apologize for possibly acting impossible.

“What about it?” Dean’s setting two large Styrofoam cups with lids on the nightstand and he’s amused, slapping Sam on the knee twice before he sits on the edge of his own bed. He puts his elbows on his knees and slouches over, grabbing his coffee cup – Sam can sniff out a hint of chicory, perfectly bitter for his brother – and sips.

Not looking up at first, he can still tell Dean’s not pissed, just rattled and while the typical way this goes starts with, ‘the fuck is your problem?’, all he gets now is Dean’s undivided attention and a give-it-to-me attitude. “Thought you should know, that uh, that I had no right to behave that way. It sucked, man, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Sam leans back into the headboard, definitely wouldn’t mind crawling into a hole. Dean’s already forgiven him - that much is obvious by the extra treats. If he were still pissed, the buffet would include the bare minimum of food too greasy to stomach and a beverage strong enough to peel bark off a tree.

Speaking of, he’s weaned himself off caffeine so he asks, “What’s in the cup?” gesturing towards the second beverage.

Dean’s grin erupts, brilliant white and devilish. “Take a sip, you’re going to love it. That night desk clerk we met was punching out and she recommended that for you.”

“The night desk clerk?” Sam shuts his eyes, mind flashing through images and settles on the one of the sweet blonde with the crazy grey eyes. “Krys, right? Jesus, that was nice of her but yeah, don’t know if I want to. You seem a little too happy about it.”

“Suit yourself, but you’ll be missing the good stuff,” Dean’s ridiculous display of sniffing the drink and quirking his eyebrows has Sam relenting before the mood changes.

“No way.” One strong whiff. It's rich, spiced tea and the aroma has Sam dubious.

“Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence your highness. Act like I don’t know how to pick out,” Dean pauses to collect himself and nip back the words on the tip of his tongue, “Whatever, it’s decaf. The big hoopla you should be acknowledging is what info I pulled from Bobby.” Thing is, Sam is thankful and before he answers he once-overs his brother.

“Yeah, and?” Sam inhales and takes a sip, lets the flavor of the orange spiced brew settle on his tongue.

Dean lifts his head up from staring down between his legs, takes a sip of coffee. “Bobby gave me a name and a town, so I chatted up our friendly hotel concierge. Asked about her connections with the area. Just so happens she grew up a coupla’ miles down the road from the lake.”

“Mmm, and when you say ‘asked’ you mean…”

“I mean asked. As in, questioned. The hell, dude, you jealous already?” When the only response is a decent eye roll, Dean knows he’s golden and continues, “Got us some pretty nifty tips on local traps where we can find baby’s daddy,” Dean waits for Sam to cut his eyes over, “and between her and Bobby, we got ourselves a doctor, Sam."


	9. Chapter 9

“Apiarist,” the word is intended to imitate a question as Dean’s chewing on the slim end of a Bic, trying to ignore the wood splintered texture of the picnic table prickling his legs through the denim of his jeans. He’s ignoring that and the falling temperature; a steady wind sweeping up the mountain top, across the bare expanse of the rest area they chanced upon. There’s no protection from the weather so the newspaper he’s working on gives a flutter - threatens to fly right off if he doesn’t catch the middle with his other elbow.

“Beekeeper.” Sam knows his brother is smart enough to do the Times Sunday puzzle solo, and the Times is not what he’s trying to solve. Knows this is a method, a way for Dean to center himself, thinking out loud, maybe getting a conversation going in lieu of them staring at the tabletop.

“Yep, just keeping you on your toes, brain.” Dean sideswipes a chip from the middle of Sam’s makeshift wax paper wrap, fish and chips untouched and soggy with vinegar. As soon as the tang hits his tongue, his face scrunches sour puckered and content. He expects some retort concerning being Pinky, greeted instead with a firm punch of reality to the gut.

“I’d been thinking of terminating.” Sam’s voice carries quietly across the table.

There’s a decent size pause between the two of them. Dean pops his jaw, tongue sliding over his teeth to dislodge chip pulp stuck in a molar. He heard Sam right, no need in cracking sarcastic. In fact, he doesn’t want to say much of anything, figures this was a week’s worth of overdue and it’s as uncomfortable having to talk about it now as it was when Dean was just imagining. The puzzle becomes more fascinating, several clues burning through the paper, yet still he bumps Sam’s knee to give him a green light.

Sam starts from the touch, feeling full to bursting with the need to get the burdening worries out in the open, get some unabashedly honest input from the older brother he knows will provide nothing less. “I was concerned about things,” he says and channels his nervous energy into balled fists and bumps them against the bench. “So… I checked on due dates and weekly stuff and big surpise, I um, I changed the timeframe to what I'm supposing I should be following." Looking out towards the forest below the mountaintop, there are leaves coating the scenery. With that, he schools his features blank.

“I thought," and the ideas swirl, give him pause, "thought it would be easier to track my progress with a pregnancy calendar. There’s resources all over the place. Jesus, man, you wouldn’t believe the amount of websites dedicated to this stuff. Plug in the date of conception, no period because...soo yeah, there was that issue. Turns out," Sam coughs, his lips pursed and he shakes his head with the remainder of the words, "I'm, or whatever it is, it's eleven weeks and three days along today.”

The burning sensation in Dean's stomach isn't from his last inhaled meal. He’s had a few days to adjust to the actuality of Sam’s condition. This conversation here, it makes him feel incompetent. His lack of questions, despite all the reasons he gives, is inexcusable – all this time spent traveling, pretending the less he knows the better. Guess again, he thinks, it’s October 31, and eleven weeks and three days. 

“Sam, listen,” he starts, but Dean’s rattle thin response is promptly cut short. 

“No. Just no, Dean." Sam doesn't yell it but he's obviously in no mood to pussy foot around the subject and Dean stares down at the ground. "You know what that means with the time constraints. It's no joke, and time is literally gonna bite me in the ass if we aren’t able to see that doctor of yours. Really, there could be god-knows-what growing inside me, Azazel type bad, dude, and the last thing I need is a freaking deadline to make our decision non-negotiable.” A return bump of knee against the underside of the table has Dean looking up to see Sam staring at him, eyes brimming with confusion and overwhelming sadness.

“Right?” Floundering, a nudge for Dean’s opinion that he's correct in his assumptions. No judgment. Judgement. Something.

Dean grips the black ballpoint and flips it back and forth between his fingers, allows himself to float away for a nanosecond. Caught up in the smoky scent of a distant campfire etched in his sinuses as the wind dies down for a moment. Fire, mom, dad, hell and Sam. Wonders when it'll finally be enough, wonders on how the universe deems they’ve not sacrificed enough. Dean’s think train ends on a surprise note, a word cutting through his brief melancholy. Sam said _our_.

“Right. Gonna have to give me a minute here,” Dean gives him this--the question of should he offer more is moot; it’s a matter of when. Sam’s posture collapses as he hunches in on himself, rests his arms crossed and on the top of the wooden planks, pillows his chin on folded hands. While it’s nice to have hot breath to steam over his fingers, the fried food is nearer to his face now. The smell assaults his senses and he grimaces, pushes the wrap far away; he’d agreed to the nasty meal only for the sake of Dean’s enormous appetite, the idea of fish on his own stomach too horrid a concept. Dean makes a grab for the wrap, cuts his eyes up in comprehension, then settles back into his previous state.

Termination.

Abortion.

Sam had spent a few days rolling those words round the tip of his tongue, gauging himself on his own reactions and level of seriousness once he pushed aside his flailing emotions. He is – quite serious is what he is. It’s a hell of a subject, one that some say is a guaranteed ticket there. He’s not met any demons who’ve talked about it so he wouldn’t know. He has his own beliefs, seen what he’s had to see and knows the aftermath can be devastating if a person doesn’t have the right support system. It’s a cut and dry issue for him, the necessity of the procedure if what he’s concerned about …necessitates.

Sam doesn’t see it but he hears it; his brother fidgeting right before he speaks and the crunch of newspaper as a pen etches a line back and forth, back and forth, back and…

“You remember that time down in Louisiana when you were, what? Let’s see, you were all chicken legs and bony elbows. Thirteen. Into your books and math and Star Wars. Holy crap what a lanky, nerdy piece of work you made. Used to have to rub your knees, hips and ankles in the middle of the night, ‘else all the moaning and squirming from growing pains would’ve woken up dad.” Dean laughs and Sam feels it vibrate up through his arms and hit him square in the chin. Dean’s beyond antsy, the toe of one boot taps a muted rhythm on the grass and mud beneath the table. Sam hears the leather of Dean’s jacket rub together as he's probably rubbing the back of his neck.

“Podunk river town north of Slidell?” Dean gives the name of the larger city and that’s what brings in the deluge of images and names. 

Sam’s flashing back to the summer of ’96, to one of the few times during that season when dad settled them down for more than three weeks. John had rented a four room wooden shack off the wrong side of the tracks – said it was far enough into swamp country to keep prying eyes from seeing what he and the boys got up to in the middle of the woods. Regardless, there were plenty of natural wildlife hunters around so their toting guns and targets didn’t raise a single eye. 

Place was dense with cypress and tupelo trees, swampland rich with all sorts of interesting plant and animal life. Enough to keep Sam preoccupied for days on end. The weather came in two shades: sticky and hot and aside from the rickety porch rockers sawing back and forth, no breeze swept through. At all. They hadn't minded it much. The opportunity to sit still after the aggressive summer hunting regime John enforced was a welcome change. After all, there was electricity so box fans lined the shack…hell, even the front porch. Dean swore the insect population was reaching C movie proportions and Sam ignored the bitching, hustled the neighbors, folks who lived a good mile away on a crooked path up through the swamp. He’d ended up winning more than his fair share of pool games and with that, the much needed funding whenever they all met up in the town’s bar. Good people, people who minded their own when it wasn’t their business and held local fish fries and mudbug boils when it was.

“Not much to remember except the oppressive heat, alligators hissing at the front door, and mosquitos as big as birds. That and the Laura, Leslie, no, no. Lacy, that girl you were seeing. You were always on the loose then. Used to drive dad nuts waiting for you to finish with her and come back to the house. What about it?”

“Huh. Yeah, dad was something else with that. Nah, but yeah it was Lacy,” Dean rubs the back of his neck to get the blood flowing and he shudders violently from the cold. “Told dad I’d been seeing a bunch of others back then, didn’t think you’d figured it out. Stupid call on my part, screwing around without covering my tracks, kid genius.” He stops there and Sam waits but Dean’s too busy strolling down memory lane so he kick starts the conversation.

“Mhmm,” Sam snorts, “Dad didn’t buy your crap for one minute either. He never talked it over with me ‘cause we knew you’d blow a fuse if we made a big deal of it. Dude, when dad was home he’d settle down in his newspapers and watch the stupid door like it'd implode. Weird as hell. He’d work on a bottle of whiskey - like any minute you’d be walking back in to share a shot.” Sam scratches his boot along the well-worn divot Dean’s made in the earth and then scrapes the leather toe along Dean’s own boot.

Dean shrugs, huffs in psuedo-irritation. “Figured as much. The stubborn mule always caught me." There’s mumbling and a chip crunches in Dean’s fingertips as he toys with the edge of the food wrapper. No doubt about it, Sam can feel the amusement in his brother’s tone. “Anyhow, saw Lacy most of the summer, kind of most of her anyways." Dean shakes his head to clear the images, knowing now is not the time to relieve the intimate details.

“Dean, for the first time in your horny teenaged life, you were exclusive; hell…dad and I both about came unglued having to work for your undivided attention that summer. Thought I'd officially gone crazy when I started actually missing watching you eat with your mouth open, scratching your balls.” Sam is sheepish, thinks he might very well know where this is headed and that sits fairly unpleasant in his mind. “So. Okay. Okay, so not to be a prick because I get it, I do, man. I wanted normal but you, you've always been just as bad." At that, Dean protests with a glare. "No. Because, Dean, in your own way it's been there, underneath and sometimes right out in the open." He allows that to sink in. They've ridden a million miles sewn together and it's not a lie. Dean, Sam figures, won't put up any more protest. "I’m guessing the relevance of this story, man. Safety was your number one rule which is why it does surprise me at least a little. You don't think I remember your _wrap-it-up_ speeches, you're insane. So yeah, Dean, I get it.”

Dean’s head shoots up, “Safety. She, hell, we broke the bank on condom usage that year.” He laughs as he reaches forward to pull off a piece of fish. Chews, talks as he finishes. “Trust me, safety. All of that alluding you just Dr. Phil'd me with. Yeah. But it wasn't Lacy and me. She was knocked up when I met her. Second thing she told me after we met. Two weeks later, she wasn't. And I went with her too, sat with her until they came to take her back to the exam room, black goo under her eyes and down her cheeks from crying and her lips raw from biting 'em, and I stayed. I read a People magazine and Lacy. When it's doable, when it's not you and...you just don't leave 'em to it.” Dean stops, regroups as memories rush forward too quickly and he’s worried he’s upsetting Sam. But Sam needs to hear this, so he’s just taking a break for him. That’s all.

Sam pulls a hand out from under his chin and face scrubs at the faint stubble along his jaw and across the light oil that marks up his forehead. It’s new information and it's, it is disturbing. And while he’s embarrassed to admit it, it’s horribly reassuring.

“You went with her to the abortion clinic,” and Sam immediately tilts his head, winces in apology because while Dean may be a braying ass at the best of times, he is nowhere near a douchebag of that proportion. Granted, that's dramatic as well as his brother has been, on occasion, one of those as well but the guy balances it all with a knack for having these random moments of chivalrous grandeur. 

Sam would be willing to bet the loss of a good night’s sleep on the fact that Dean offered Lacy other solutions. Sam had met the girl twice and she struck Sam as intelligent and more than civil to the kid brother of the boy she was dating. Sam remembers the aftermath of their relationship, the state Dean fell into months after they’d moved on to some other small town in Tennessee. Dean had been stoic, a robot whom dad used to his advantage on hunts, leaving Sam with a shell of a brother for a good long while. After school hours, back in the fall of ’96, Sam spent countless afternoons meandering hallways laid with white speckled tile, rows of chipped blue lockers to keep him company for just one more hour before he walked back to the ratty apartment they were squatting in. Dean wasn’t simply a buzzkill, he was empty; Sam wasn’t afraid of him, he was sick for him.

Nothing Sam did that fall elicited any response other than “yeah,” and “sure, Sammy,” and “I’m just tired Sam” and the incredible disorientation haunted him. He had missed his brother on through that winter, the man he’d grown to love and idolize and hate as only a brother could. He loved his brother…loves him. He can honestly say that that, it's the exact sentiment in his mind now and Sam’s breath catches hard. He’s trying to regain his composure against the torrent of a burgeoning realization and uses their present conversation to ground himself. 

It's sobering.

He grinds out “Did you,” tries not to screw this up by asking the wrong questions, steps back, “did you feel like it was the right decision or regret it?”

There's no hesitation in the response. “I wish to hell I did regret it, Sam. But I don’t, I didn't. It was her decision, not mine and I support that right. Not everyone does and not everyone was Lacy. Who the hell am I to say what people can or can’t do to their bodies." An puff of breath steams between them and Dean moves his shoulders ups and down, shakes off more of the cold.

“Hell, I wasn’t even angry at the guy who helped knock her up. He left, no love lost between 'em. No family to keep her, no one to watch out for her except an elderly aunt she lived with. She needed someone to not let her down, and for once, Sam…yeah, man. I stayed. I’d let you and dad down all the time but her? Damn man, I spent a summer almost falling in…” Dean stops. Clears his throat, careful to keep this subject relative to Sam, what he needs to know. That Dean won't let him down.

“Whether that makes me a bad person for supporting her decision, screw it, already had the one way ticket.” At this Dean’s fingers twitch, easing closer to where Sam’s hands are on the table. He won’t though, won’t make that move just yet.

A nasty headache is brewing behind Sam's left eye, wrapping itself up and around the left side of his skull. Hearing Dean put himself out there for other people and getting hurt in the end, always dumped on, it stresses Sam out every single time. “Dean, you were distraught that entire fall and winter. It didn’t take a genius to notice that you weren’t doing well. I wish we were what we are now, then. Open or whatever the hell it is we're doing. And for the record, jackass, you didn’t let us down. It’s driving me insane hearing you say things like that.”

“Sam.” It’s a warning note, enough of one that Sam instinctively simmers down. Dean doesn’t so much feel like sharing his feelings towards Lacy or any other past relationship for that matter. It feels inconsiderate, rude somehow. He does know, however, that talking about her procedure is going to be helpful here so he'll suck it up, show Sam he's not going to be alone.

As expected, Sam doesn’t relent, trudges ahead with more questions, “Really. How are you going to cope with this, cope with me? Family, you and me. It's a lot more intimate, than a past love. Are you going to be okay if we carry through with the decision to end this pregnancy?”

The air is bone dry, lends a sharp clarity to Dean’s voice. “How would I cope? Sam, I told you already, I’m no bystander. But you know that don’t you?” Sam isn't riled, lets the idea of there being a _them_ hang in the air. 

“Dean, I didn’t..” 

“I hate you right now, you know that right?”

Sam’s natural reaction to Dean’s antics is to snort in amusement and crack a joke, let Dean suck up his emotions like the big boy he is, however, with things being so sketchy – blowjobs and kisses and such – he might have to learn to give an inch. At least until he can correct whatever spell David has Dean under because unbinding spell or no, Sam’s still convinced his older sibling is under the influence. So yeah, great, now he’s fidgeting.

“No, you really don’t, but I’ll admit I’m being an ass about the whole ‘shocked you were in love’,” and here, Dean grunts, pouts. He’s acting like the words alone are offensive, only proving to Sam how weird it is to see him like this.

Dean has half a mind to carry on this topic but it’s not what he wants. What he wants is for Sam to tell him why it is that aborting would be the correct decision to make in this instance. That and to get back into the Impala and out of the freezing cold. The sky’s taken a drastic turn for the worse, the sun hidden behind omnious clouds that look ready to burst.

“You’ve…we’ve gotten ourselves turned around here, it’s not about that…me and her the rest of the summer. Want to tell me why you think this is an answer? The answer?” 

Sam places his forehead on his crossed arms, mumbles into the crook of his elbows. Raising up again, his gaze is stuck somewhere in the past tense. 

“Me and Jess, we never went without protection. Fact was, our lifestyle arrangement was too much of a health risk to be blasé about safety and having a kid. Not a question, it didn't factor into the equation. She was on the pill and all the drawers were stocked. We wanted to play and make it through school without any surprises. Did have a few friends though, weren’t as careful.”

There's a mental note Dean files away, to get the details on this 'arrangement'. 

“One girlfriend, Jess drove her to the clinic but the protesters--it was too much even for Jess, and she called me to come sit with them. So yeah, traumatic and surreal all in one morning. The worst part is, I do see both sides. I do. No right or wrong though, only the best decision for individual needs.”

Sam looks worse for wear, shades of green and black smudges under his eyes from being wiped out, but Dean knows if it isn’t discussed now, they’ll both clam up. Secrets eating them up from the inside out when the other isn’t looking, hell with that, even when they are aware.

“I get it as well, Sam." Dean leans in across the newspaper, ignoring a host of protective urges to go and wrap Sam safe in his arms. Or rub his back. It's that itchy feeling taking over whenever he feels helpless, the one that numbs him almost as much as the frigid air does, and he physically restrains himself until he can't. He gives in to the urge, grabs hold of Sam’s hands and traps the tips of his fingers. It's huge, and yet if one were walking by, they'd look to simply be bumping knuckles. 

Nonchalant hand-holding or not, they both stare. All non-tactile governing familiarities kicking in despite their previous night’s adventures, floored by the move. Sam schools his face quick as lightening, smirks through the craziness of the situation, and gives Dean a leg up, or rather a hand as he closes his fingers around his brother's. He hates to admit it, but it’s warm. And god help him, nice.

“This pregnancy, I’m at a loss."

“Well, Sam, sometimes when a man witch and the boy toy he curses get their sexing on and don’t use protection…” The light barb works. Sam's breath hits hot against their hands. “You’ve already said it’s possible demonic. Possible another plan along the lines of Azazel's. Angels. Feel free to stop me before I have a heart attack. I mean, I don’t buy it but before you go off into a rage, I’ve valid reasoning”

Sam doesn’t anger, lowering his head to battle a wave of nausea. He nods against their hands in response and lets his forehead rest there, eyes cast off to the side, taking in the forest. The view is muddled, a visible line of rainfall over the treetops envelops the scene, the clouds blowing east of their direction so they’re okay for the moment.

“Even with an ultrasound, Sam, we won’t know. It’s not like demons have horns and a tail. That, however,” Dean smushes his bottom lip up slightly under the top with that thought, “that would make for an interesting first pic I think. We could send a copy to Bobby, make up some snazzy caption…somethin’ like ‘From Hell’s womb, Happy Holidays.”

It's the tackiest thing he can say, the probability of it backfiring exponential and yet. Sam mumbles a string of obscenities concerning Dean’s lack of integrity as a moral human being then proceeds to laugh bodily. His enormous chest shakes the whole table, and it's just the break Dean needs to ask the really tough questions.

“You know what this entails, then? That time with Jess’s friend, they explain what they do?” Dean points his index finger around his navel, eyebrows furrowed low. He wants to make certain his kid brother _partner_ his mind supplies, knows how extreme a surgical procedure this can be emotionally. The physical aspect is something he’s kind of, sort of sure that Sam can take. It’s odd, this womb thing.

Sam’s laughter subsides as the pain behind his eye begins to twist, curling around his optical nerve and radiating a shot of heat through his entire system. His stomach crunches in on itself, knots forming into a ball of queasiness. Answering Dean is pretty important, hopes he can do it without projectile vomiting.

“Hey, still with me?” Dean squeezes tightly around Sam’s hand, not letting up until Sam nods.

Sitting up straight, Sam manages to suck up the remainder of his energy. He responds quietly, “I’m ok, just not up to my usual, you know?” 

“Might want to work on not impersonating a sick dog next time around though,” Dean’s face registers a bit of disgust, “You’re gonna have to start calling me Auntie Em. All these symptoms have me flitting around like a little old lady.”

There's this hysterical moment of lucidity where Sam wants to point out that ‘flitting’ is an impressive word, at least twelve points on the Scrabble board. Instead, “I know as much as an outsider can on the entire procedure. From the insertion of the dilators to the suctioning to the cramping, noise included as that’s what disturbed those one or two friends the most. The noise. And the bleeding afterwards. It’s okay, Dean. I understand it’s invasive and believe me, it’s a choice I don’t want to have to make.”

“Well that right there tells me you're feeling worse than I thought as it's not a dilator scenario. Me knowing you your entire life and ohhh, the recent endeavor that went down last night, I’d say you’re still model numero uno with the plumbing on the outside.” 

He was down there. Just. And while there are more intimate ways to know Sam, he doesn't know as his fingers didn't explore, that was definitely dick. And Sam will be utilizing the surgery form of abortion as there's no way this is going to be an ass thing. Thoughts combine, explode, and Dean mentally kicks himself for wondering on Sam's ass producing more than it's regular requirements. A womb connection, that a viable being could come from that tiny area. 

Sam mumbles incoherently, perfectly aware of the internal freak-out across from him.

“What?” Dean blinks, can’t catch what Sam said and he sucks royally at reading lips.

“I…opening….my…” 

“Wait, what? Need a Star Trek thingy to translate your mumblese.” 

Sam doesn't lift up, says dejectedly, “There's a new place, extremely tiny, right behind my …” Sam makes a waving gesture towards the vicinity of his seated lower half, "So, it would be a paranormal normal elective D & C.”

Dean says nothing, does nothing for all of fifteen seconds. Sits and stares blankly at Sam, not comprehending because he doesn’t. His mind supplies, again, that he was in that vicinity, more up close and personal than any brother has any right to be with his sibling. It’s another solid ten seconds later that he realizes that that’s so not the issue, and he can have his meltdown on new, magical anatomy later.

Perhaps while Sam is sleeping in the car on the way to the doctor’s house, where they should be headed right now. It's a plan, a solid course of action, and with this in mind, along with a few selective curse words, he squeezes his hand over Sam’s with a tremendous amount of force and lets go.

Sam grunts loudly, glares up through his wind swept bangs as Dean rights himself. He cocks one leg over the bench seat, then the next, and makes to grab for Sam. The action kicks up dust, that Sam has been manhandled more in the last three months by persons wanting in his pants than--well, in a long, long time. Quite frankly, between that and the headache that’s chipping away at vital grey matter, Sam's had enough. He musters up about a teaspoon of adrenaline and shoves the offending appendage off before it reaches his bicep.

It's a quick burst of strength that's found him, and it’s gone suddenly, leaving him put out: slightly damp from mist gusting off the eastern storm and largely perturbed, weakened from the onslaught of pain. Dean wears a stupid smirk, and while Sam expects to be yanked out of his seat, he's instead gently but firmly maneuvered out from under the table. He's in capable hands so his knees don’t even grind against the table’s edge as he slips them free. He’s helped to stand up, feeling like an non-functioning invalid without his big brother, wanting to protest but the words lay dormant. 

Dean spreads him out on the benchseat as best he can, gets them on the road and tearing up asphalt towards upstate New York. He talks non-stop, fills Sam in on the doctor Bobby's found them. A woman known throughout the occult underground as a go-to hunter turned medical professional. Bobby had to pull strings, run all-nighters helping out twice the hunters he usually handled in hoping to get the lead on the doc. Turned out in spades for the older hunter as the doctor, one Lexi Asben, called back with a schedule she was more than willing to free up for the case. Provided they arrive asap, her concerns over the younger Winchester's case being legitimate came across clearly, and she had too much field work to settle than to sit by and wait. Bobby assured her on Winchester promptness then called Dean with the matter's urgency. 

Lexi Asben was their only lead and as Bobby so eloquently put it, “I’m not a woman’s doc, and I won't trust any of those other buffoons on the grid. Hell, even those off it. I don't know duck squat about delivering no damn babies, and you can quote it straight from the movie if ya’d like but that’s my final answer, boy.”

Four hours until they hit upstate New York and the interstate is chocked full, buzzing with weighted down semis and while Sam wonders why they’re on this particular thruway, he’s being lulled into drowsy. Dean’s voice carries over to his slumped form, soothing away the aches and furrows, reassuring and giving him the leeway to just let it all go.

“You know, you’re not like Lacy. You have support. Me. And your reasons, the college friends and having arrangements, okay. You still have my support. But if you do decide to not terminate, I'm here as well. We'll figure it out.”

Sam nods once for yes, slips his head sideways onto the side of the passenger window as Dean’s hand, calloused and rough even through his denim, massages his lower thigh. Three and a half hours to upstate New York and Sam falls asleep and simply lets it go.


	10. Chapter 10

“Ahhh yeah, nothing but good times.”

Despite the happy-go-lucky alto intonation lacing her orders, Dr. Lexi Asben is not amused. No big surprise, as she’s seeing firsthand that her sentiment would also apply to the fifteen young patients currently occupying her practice’s waiting area. 

Four of the tinier children are beside themselves, dirty chins streaked with snot and tears, and they're running around high on adrenaline as the clinic nurses finish an intial triage sweep. Everything comes to a screeching halt as a little one keens out, demanding another drink. Pigtails knotted, eyes squinty, the child isn’t quite stomping although her teeny fists are balled in fury. 

Dr. Asben’s P.A., a stocky woman in her late 20’s with no children to call her own and proud owner of a sneer that can melt steel, she wields her best _I got this_ smile in attempt to quell the children. The doctor watches through her peripheral as the woman, Stephanie, rounds them up – corrals would be a better word, she thinks – and pairs younger with older. The petite child with severe anger issues is left to her lonesome, her hands still clenched. The remedy is Stephanie delicately grabbing the child’s tiny arms then plopping her tush on the carpet square in front of her. The brown haired girl, not a day over five, looks up at Stephanie in a mixture of shock and awe. 

Groans from a few of the older kids give the P.A. the tell-tale sign of what’s soon to follow. There are going to be tears, loud ones if the child’s demeanor is anything to go by, and what is most assuredly an impending tantrum on the way. Stephanie’s a damn fine professional by Lexi's standards but her eval states she’s been observed on more than one occasion with hesitation towards children. It's a trait Dr. Asben hopes will fade to the background as the newness of the clinic work starts to become a thing of the past. 

Vitals--pulse, blood pressure, blood oxygen levels, the whole rigamarole--all are taken and logged. Each child is assessed for head trauma, body trauma, minor bruises and lacerations. Turns out they're fine, bar the serious psychological damage the evening's fiasco will garner. A few little ones loiter near the front desk’s corner observing the doctor checking out the lobby scene and hearing her light-heartedly root for her friend, her P.A., to come out victorious. 

The wait for meltdown status is short as fourty odd pounds of quivering mess springs off her bum and launches straight for the P.A., who appears mortified beyond repair. The tiny mass of emotions firmly attaches herself to Stephanie’s legs, wiping a snotty nose along pant fabric. Stephanie in turn avoids a panic attack trying to stop guessing when she'll be kicked or bitten and wonders whether the child is a tad old to be indulging in the nonsense of physical temper tantrums; she places the child on her lap.

“Don’t mind her, she’s not bad. Just crazy clingy with adults and stuff when she gets nervous or scared.”

Looking up, Stephanie catches the eye of the child doling out advice. The kid is a scrawny wisp of a thing with dyed jet black hair, brown eyes heavily lined with kohl. His exhaustion is apparent with pronounced inky blue and black circles staining the delicate skin around his eyes. “What’s your name again?” Stephanie warms to the kid, that certain look he's wearing like a mirror of her own inner turmoil. He and the child in his care look three seconds away from breaking free of the lobby and bolting. 

“Mark,” he states, palming his seat's armrest, fingernail scritching at the wood veneer to find a bump or what-not. Nerves and anxiety.

“Do you know her well, Mark?” The girl in question is trembling, her bright rainbow legging clad feet kicking out and in, out and in, scooting in closer to the older woman’s warmth and security. Stephanie may not know two squats about raising children but she’s reminded once more of their resilience in the face of tragedy. Dr. Asben waits a hair longer, her heart heavy for these kids. She’s eager to hear Stephanie’s respectful questioning of her youngest patients to date; both women would know it’s least likely to end up as a tale of outlandish fibbing and imagination by directing the questions towards Mark and another girl around his age. 

“Yeah, good kid. Mrs. Tate knew her, baby-sat for her. Mrs. Tate, that was the bus driver, she counted us, looked us over to check for blood and stuff. Tanya...” a slender finger, blunt fingernail painted carbon black, points in the vicinity of two older girls. One sighs and raises her hand, rolls her eyes and Lexi snorts at the sheer amount of angst-ladden, hormonal teen attitude coming off in waves with this Tanya kid. 

“That’s me, I’m her. Good god, Mark, vague enough with the story?”

It’s duly noted that for a kid who appears younger than thirteen years, Mark takes the ribs in stride, completely ignoring his counterpart’s contempt. Hacking up a raspberry sound, the boy rolls his eyes and continues, “So yeah, cranky over there and me, we told her we were all right but Mrs. Tate--she was shaking pretty bad. Don’t think we’ve ever seen her upset. Huh, Tanya? Right?”

The young girl--both P.A. and doctor realize with a start that Mark is woefully outnumbered by females--her face droops, all spit and vinegar kicked out of her. She shivers and nods in agreement, blonde bangs sticking to the left side of her face thanks to a layer of road grime and a splotch of congealed blood. Stephanie strokes the face of the child she's now holding and assures her she'll be right back, that she needs to get some more wipes for the kids to clean off their faces. 

Having already been to the scene, hiking deep into the surrounding forest to shoot, salt, and burn the creature responsible for the accident, Lexi doesn’t need to hear anything more. A sigh later, she pushes up off the wall she’s leant against and heads towards her office.

+

“I don’t see what’s so funny Ms. Sassy pants." A nurse, one Trish Catley, R.N., states dryly, not bothering to knock on the head physician’s office door and proceeds with parking her bum on the corner of the mahogany desk. Lexi’s lips pinch in a duck pucker, chest still shaking with amusement.

“Was just thinking of how the Winchesters are going to react to all these women. Bobby called about thirty minutes ago and said they’re almost here. Hope you ladies have your game faces ready.”

“I’ve heard everything you have Lex, the rumors and gossip surrounding those boys. Men now for christ sakes, it’s not like John’s with them and keeping his kids tied down to the life. They're grown men, which," Trish cuts a sly glance over to her employer, fiddles with the string to the office's desk lamp, "You know, makes this all the more interesting. Sooo." With that, she slaps the desk and regrets it an instant later thanks to the sting. "Oww. So, we’re all set for them.”

“And Stephanie? How’s Honey holding up?” Lexi doesn’t have to say what’s been a source of contention upon hearing that Sam Winchester had managed to cross paths with David Mayfair. How the man hadn't come out the other side of that meeting a lot worse for wear, regardless of what they think is going on--Lexi counts it a win. Lexi's scared shitless for the guy. Bobby had spared no details, bar the actual hardcore porn, as to the youngest Winchester’s current predicament.

“She’s...aw hell, I don’t know, Lex. I can’t tell if she’s excited or sick from it.”

The nurse eyes the bookshelves, spots the thick mess of OB/GYN texts and medical encyclopedias – the texts old and cracking down the spines. Upon closer inspection, if one were so inclined, she’d find her boss’s more eclectic journals and tomes, blackened bindings old and weathered. 

A good many are burnt, marred in scars. Trish supposes the staff, her friends, they're similar to these books, truth hidden beneath the rouged cheeks and varied skin tones ranging from alabaster to the deepest ebony; she supposes that beneath the hair straight as bone or piled high and kinky curly - it doesn’t matter how wide they grin, their twinges of broken spirits hold domain in the clinic walls. 

“You’re doing that nasty business of thinking again, KitKat. Eyes gone all screwy, girl," Lexi drawls, grabs a knee closest to her and pinches in for the reflex laugh. “You been drinking while typing up the patient docs?” 

“As if, woman!” Trish scowls, the snort she gives resonating loudly in the cramped office and it gets both women in a mood, giggling like a pair of school girls. Endless supplies of patience is just another misused, ill-begotten phrase as they are worn paper thin tonight, dark shadows playing underneath their eyes. Trish, Kitkat as Lexi so oft calls her, comes from hardened hunter stock, born and bred into the lifestyle whilst taking only the smallest of remissions to earn her nursing degrees and any other extracurricular studies she felt would enlighten her career choices. So far, those choices have landed her two feet deep right back in supernatural muck sidled with the queen bee of all hunters. The one who’s also her employer and, Trish has this on first-hand account, two steps inward towards bat shit crazy. 

“Lex,” Trish admonishes, yanking snow and mud caked boots off the desk, “First off, get your damn dirty boots offa here. Pig. I mean my god, Lex, we just cleaned the room and you’ve all ready gone an funked it up.” She tops off the first part of the scolding with a withering eye, a twitchy and downright silly look if one were to ask the other woman.

“You old codge. My frickin’ office, back off,” Lexi volleys back, not giving into the smaller woman’s barbs. It’s understandable, the want to lash out when there are patients, kids, who want to feel better and the staff's ability to make that so is denied on a sheer psychological level. “What’s your secondly--and don’t say eating because my stomach isn’t up to it right now, all right?” 

“Okay. Second, what’s the verdict out there? Think we'll be able to keep ‘em all overnight or do they have a bus coming from the agency to pick ‘em up?”

Thinking back to the overturned school bus, the younger kids screaming as grunts and growls filled the blackened space outside the flipped windows, Lexi’s chest shudders and she sticks the tip of her tongue out in thought. Images of terrified children whimpering, sobbing, as the werewolf circled them like livestock is literally making her gag. “It’s gonna be a long one. I don’t think anyone from the agency is able to rustle up the extra crew or a school van this time of night." "We have those spare cots in the back and extra blankets and pillows in the cleaning supply closet.” The newcomer’s voice catches the women off guard. She smiles at them, her lithe form leaning against the office’s door frame.

“Stop sneaking around. Stomp a little, lady.” All three women burst out laughing, shattered nerves and desperate to hang off the humorous reprieves. 

The clinic’s surgical R.N, Brandy, steps into the room, her dark brown eyes twinkling with excitement. “Those kids are fortunate, sweetie. It doesn’t matter they’re orphans, tough break in life, but having you and Alicia find them in time, Lex...” she moves around the chair, bends to kiss the top of Lexi’s head, nuzzles quickly into the wild hairs swirling up with static electricity. 

Lexi takes the hand offered over her shoulder and squeezes, “It was the bus driver of all damn things. Lady wolfed out by the bus. Fortunate is that her ties to those kids were strong enough to give her pause, otherwise it would’ve been a bloodbath,” her breathe hitches on the last word.

“Stupid mutt. She prowled around the bus long enough to snarl, let herself be seen and traumatize them. Chased her down by the river, quick and easy, one bullet. Damn, I’m an amazing shot!” All three women look up to see their co-worker smiling from ear to ear. Alicia, the only other hunter on staff aside from Lexi not in retirement, kicks off the opposing wall from the office and joins the others.

Brandy rolls her eyes, not surprised in the least by Alicia’s attitude. Their resident midwife is a formidable hunter, stealthy and confident. Her personality is brash and lord knows her habit of bedding anything that doesn’t escape her periphery is reaching legendary proportions and yet, those quirks aren’t an issue. The small band of medical professionals know her to have one of the kindest souls this side of any possible heaven.

“Excuse me ladies, don’t mean to break up the love fest but um,” Stephanie joins the group, breath rushed and she brushes a strand of straight black hair behind her ear, “It’s them. Or, um, it’s the guys…the Winchesters. They’re here.” She smiles crookedly, watching the women she’s known for well over five years come to life - Lexi’s combat boots thunking out from under the mahogany desk, Trish springing up from the corner and clapping her hands together loudly. 

Brandy sways gracefully from around the desk and winks at the women, “Trish, you, Steph, and I’ll make sure the kids are settled and the two of you – well, go on and get our boys.”

+

Dean pulls up to the tiny clinic, his girl’s tires slicked and caked with embedded snow, and he barely manages to resist the urge to donut the car, get the muck flying. There’s a full moon tonight, not a cloud on the horizon, allowing the stars to spark across the windshield; any other time, the Impala would be parked in the middle of a clearing, her hood groaning hearty protests under the weight of both brothers. Not a past-time romance for them but star gazing with Sam ranks up there among top nighttime Winchester entertainment. 

As it stands though, the past few days have caught up with him and before he can stop, there’s yawning and he’s raising his arms in a stretch, elbows bent and fists pushing into the burn of it against the roof. Snaps of joints and pops of tendons here and there accompany and he shakes his head in resignation towards the betrayal of his aging body.

The move, forget that, the sounds pull his brother from sleep, Sam bringing up a long sleeve to wipe away cooling drool he’s leaked onto the seams of Dean’s leather jacket. Hazel eyes fight through the murk, unfocused, and yet years of training have him alert in less than a minute.

“Here already?”

“Mmm? Mhmm. Place is lit up like a Christmas tree. Either they have an emergency or they’re setting up one hell of a welcome party.”

“Good you called Bobby.” 

Bobby is their go-between in scheduling this meeting. The older hunter filled Dean in on the doctor and her staff, explaining the basics. Names, ages, what to expect, so…the basics. Essentially, not enough as any hunter worth his salt would expect more going in blind. Both men knew Bobby didn’t mean a thing by it, their friend simply didn’t know. The head physician was, rather she still is, a hunter with an extremely tight calendar. Hunting took a backseat to her clinic but then she made them interchangeable, the majority of her patients almost always involving a supernatural event. Paranormal activity, experiences, and lifestlyes are a must to work with her, a background in hunting was tip of the cake. 

The information ends there for them, no other background on any of the staff. Dean centers himself, tosses a glance over to Sam’s slumped form, “Yep, called him about an hour ago. Grumpy bastard yelled at me for five solid minutes.”

“Dean, it’s – what time is it?” Sam makes to grab for his brother’s arm, catches him by that jacket, and tries to make sense of the time he sees there, eyes still sleep blurry. 

“I can tell time, Sam. Grabby,” yanks his arm free and grabs hold of the steering wheel.

Sam ignores the fuss, rubs at the thin skin at the corner of his eyes with his thumbs. “Yeah, it’s late. Someone’s tired and sweepy?” Sam’s shoulders move with a small laugh, dimples cutting grooves in his cheeks. Dean’s grumpy, he’s antsy, and Sam’s suspicion is that it’s to do with an office full of female hunters. It’s everything thing to do with confidence, his overzealous male ego warring with his respect for women in the field. The age old issue is so familiar it lights his cheeks up, dimples dug in for the duration as Sam’s whole face screams amused and happy. 

It’s unexpected, the joy of Sam’s grin, and it makes Dean break out in a sheen of moisture across his forehead; he can’t help it if Sammy’s dimples look irresistible. The dude’s lickable is what he is. Dean’s torn between wanting to make fun of him or falling head over heels for these smiles, knows the reasoning behind this one is probably pretty fucking girly. What's crazier is it’s turning him on, his jeans becoming a mild irritation of pressure. The hard-on snaps him out of his reverie and he slaps a hand around Sam’s neck, massages his neck muscles.

“Ready, bro?”

Sam's isn't sure if it's the stupid nickname or if he's finally had enough rest but he responds, straightens, inching across the leather benchseat and snugging up, denim to denim. He leans the nape of his neck into the offered hand, lets Dean adjust to the position, and surrenders. The tip of his tongue and top teeth catch his bottom lip as Dean rubs away residual aches and pains. In return for the touches and gropes he’s becoming more and more accustomed, Sam offers a lingering squeeze to Dean’s inner thigh, soft flesh near an impressive hard-on, and he pinches hard with his thumb and pointer finger. Had to be done, the weird urge to knead and squeeze. 

“Ow, the fuck!?”

“Shhh, ready bro.” He’s leaning in towards Dean’s ear, body still facing forward but his mouth brushes a highly suckable lower lobe; he follows with his fingers easing to the area he no doubt bruised using a circling pattern with his thumb. Sam’s breath catches behind Dean’s ear, elicits a shiver from the sensation. His fingertips push, make room between loosely closed thighs, drift down and under until he’s pulling and squeezing the softer bits of denim clad groin and ass. That perfect area Sam’s seen when Dean sits at the edge of a bed, spread thighs and short boxer briefs riding up; that area that’s paler than pale, fine blonde hairs of his upper inner thighs and ass. Sam’s never had a reason, never seen that sweet soft spot, imagines. The images come unbidden, so new, so bizarre, he wants to stop.

He wants to rush the gates, exhilarated, guns blazing. Libido obviously ruling the show, he skims slowly between the slot of Dean’s legs. All the insistent touches these past few days, his brother’s words of encouragement and adoration scrambling his defenses. 

A trio of sharp, sudden raps on the driver’s side window has Dean spitting out a curse, left hand finding purchase on the metal door handle and flinging the door open violently. If the unexpected intrusion didn’t get Sam’s ass in gear, Dean’s firm squeeze does the trick.

“What the? Too hard, Dean! Damn!”

“Sorry, now shut up Sam”

There's no time for that, Dean's startled and he doesn’t know whether to shoot the fucker(s) or give them a piece of his mind. Shit was he unprepared and it shows like a glaring neon sign so his temper flares. He zeros in, locks his sight, and lands on - her. 

Oh. Ohh, and there's a surge of excess adrenalin firing through his veins and he gives another curse that it’s wasted on this moment.

" _pfft_ , Sorry." The woman laughs, hand raised to her lips to stifle the sound. “Sorry for the scare. Dean, is it?”

Dean wastes no time in sizing her up as best he can in the darkness, thinks she's hot as hell and that the vibe she's throwing is that she knows it. He makes the mental reference as Hottie #1. A cut down like that, and he's blaming it on the nauseous feeling from the adrenalin, he won't say but he does give a creepy smirk, watching as she and the other woman with her, develop small crinkles of uncertainty in their brow lines.

Hottie #2 makes a vague gesture (could mean ‘hi’ or it could be she wants to shoot him) and steps in front of Hottie#1.

“Deann. We were told about that shit-eating look you throw around. Bobby sends his regards. You know…” and her intentional pause and reciprocated leer has Dean worried because the second hottie with her snark and her attitude remind him of, him. “If you weren’t so busy making fun times with the Sequoia over there you might’ve seen, or hell, heard us coming. I’m disappointed to find out a person can get a make on the infamous Dean Winchester with nothing more than some heavy petting.” She’s on a roll, continues before he can get a word out, “Not like the snow’s quiet and all when we were stomping over here.”

Dean’s not intimidated. He’s not, and he’ll beat the shit out of anyone that states otherwise. Because.

Just because.

“I don’t know who you two are but I was having a discussion with my brother and…”

Sam walks up behind him wearing a shy, easy grin, claps a hand on Dean’s back and reaches out with the other. He’s sucking up his own mortification, and yes, a touch of anger because that last tall joke, and okay, the one about getting the make on his brother, were not appropriate. They need to play nice to get these women their sides, lips sealed. 

“Ma’am. I’m Sam. The pit bull here, you've already met.”

And Dean can’t help it, he’s not even pissed about the quips, it’s being caught. A seasoned hunter, with Sam in a nasty predicament in need of extra protection and there he is with his head lulling back and his brother’s hand literally on the cookie jar. Embarrassed and frustrated that he dropped the ball have him mouthing off, and god help him, he hopes Sam understands.

“Pit bull my ass, Sam. You don’t just go around smacking on a person’s window in the middle of the night when they’re in a discussion. Know what? Screw this. No.” His hand is reaching back beneath his jacket and shirt layers, the feel of his waistband and the smooth handle of his gun on his fingertips, mouth ready to fire off about shooting first when Hottie #1 shushes him.

“Shh. It’s ok.”

It’s - it has Dean running that through his head again is what it is. 

Was he?

Did she just? 

Yep, his brain offers, he was just shushed. Judging by the slackjaw and wide-eyed look, Sam is equally dumbfounded and so they stand there. Dean’s fairly certain they look like tools with their thumbs up their backsides. He’s got nothing - no quips, nothing. 

“Huh, it works.” Hottie #2 cocks her head, lashes blinking furiously and looking at them as if they’re puppies in sweaters, then turns to walk, talking as goes. “Sorry for Lexi's shushing, but really, I’d rather have this conversation inside with the rest of the group. Name’s Alicia.”

Sam whips his head around, hazel eyes silently pleading with Dean to stay quiet. Dean’s in a forgiving mood so he shrugs in abandon to Sam’s request. Still, the effort hurts, it physically pains him to let Sam off this easy for distracting him in the first place. Giving a toothy grin, green eyes bright with mischief, Dean proceeds to make small pointy gestures towards the women’s asses in front of them, as if that’s what has turned his tide.

“Fantastic people skills, Alicia. Remind me to send a gift basket.”

Hottie #2 glances back as Dean speaks, missing the lewd gestures by a mere second or two as Sam threatens to make his life miserable if he doesn't back down. The hottie is skeptical and he figures he needs to stop the nicknames before he ends up saying them aloud, landing himself in the Impala for the night. Dean doesn’t want to sleep in the Impala tonight. He’s ready for a crappy bed and overbleached sheets and a solid morning of sleep. So yeah, Alicia’s brow is flat, suspicion written across her pretty, round face.

Sam’s boots slip in a wintery slush, balancing out after nearly falling square on his ass before they even get to the door. He’s so busy watching Alicia not fall for Dean’s bait, that he’s not paying attention to where he’s stepping. It’s interesting, now that he’s not slipping his knee out of joint to avoid falling, to notice how she laughs Dean’s statements off, oil to Dean’s water. He twists his hands in his jacket pockets, mentally groans at the idea of two like-minded hunters going for the jugular. Dean’s going to be a bear to deal with now. After all, his older brother’s said it their entire lives – he doesn’t share well and he doesn’t play nice with others.

Alicia swings the outer white steel door to the clinic open, kicks her boots free of sludge on an over-sized welcome mat laser decorated with autumn leaves, and encourages them to do the same. After, she opens the inner door, takes a step forward then comes to a dead stop. Both men and the other woman nearly plow into her.

Dean holds off on scorching her as he takes in the scene in the clinic lobby. There are blankets, cots, pillows, and kids strung out across the waiting area. The room, lit up like the Fourth when they first pulled into the parking lot, is now shrouded in darkness. Eyes and kid feet are faintly visible thanks to a plastic pumpkin nightlight off in the far right corner of the room. Enough to see two grown women shift as the door opens further.

+

“It’s a camp-out Sam, we didn’t bring marshmallows. Not meaning to be offensive but uh, I wasn’t aware an OB/GYN clinic treated kids.” Dean’s sentiments ring harsh as he scopes out their surroundings. He’s genuinely upset, although his tone is rougher than he intends as the scene smacks of bad things happening to tiny people. Defenseless, been around the block to know something went down and nothing but Sam’s safety being questioned pisses him off more.

“Fifteen” is spoken over Sam’s “What happened?”

“Bus accident. The children were returning to their group home when..”

The answer draws Dean and Sam’s attention towards one of the women currently lying down, her hand smoothing over a small head of frizzy, sleep matted hair. There’s snoring on the pillows beside her and Dean hears the child murmur nonsense, watches a sleepy jerk spread through the kid’s body. His jaw sets, the sudden intrusion of soprano in the woman’s voice next to the child sounding vaguely familiar though he’s hundred proof positive he’s never heard or laid eyes upon her. Judging by Sam’s stupid hair flying all over the place as he snaps his melon towards the sound, he feels the same.

A boy's voice interrupts the woman's, continues where she left off. “When our bus driver flipped the bus. There wasn’t anything there, nothing to hit or run over. Oh yeah, and we think she might’ve turned into a wolf.”

“Mark!”

To their right, cozied under blankets and hugging tightly to the younger child she’s sparing palate space with, is a girl no more than say, twelve or thirteen. She admonishes the boy who just spoke up. Her eyes form narrowed slits, angry and visible through the dark. “Watch your mouth, the kids are right here!” The boy, Mark, looks reasonably cowed when the girl hisses her reproach.

“That’s enough you two.” The woman on the palate stirs, fabric of her clothing snagging on a chair leg as she shifts. “The kids have had a nasty night, and if you’re Dean and Sam, I’d bet my break hour you’d understand where they’re coming from.”

The first woman, Lexi, instantly tsks the bizarrely familiar woman, “None of that young lady. First rule of employment, don’t ever put time as a bet on the table. That’s plain bad for your health, sweety.” Soprano lady scootches away from the child previously tucked under her arm, pushing up on what Sam’s guessing are numb fingers by the way she shakes away the invisible pins and needle sensations. 

“Mark, Tanya, you two back to sleep. The little ones aren’t to get up if it can be helped, potty breaks being the okay. Oh, and do not let anyone past this foyer without yelling at the top of your lungs for one of us, you hear?” A slight woman stands up from their left, rubs at her elbows and pulls down the hem of her rucked up shirt. “There’s lines of salt along the doorframe and windowsill and we can’t have them broken. Think goalies. You all have the position, okay?” The lady nods in hopes the kids will as well. “Understood?”

Upon watching the three older kids nod shakily, clutching the small ones laying by their sides, the woman turns to Alicia, “Did you catch the door lock?”

“Yes ma’am, I did. No worries, Trish. All right then, let’s head back.” 

A third woman stands from her cot over by the nightlight, smoothing the covers over yet another child. Sam is unsettled, as is Dean, that he didn’t notice her. He can make out that she’s tall, not close to his height by any means, and that she gracefully maneuvers past chairs and over blanket heaps and tiny bodies on the floor.

Extending a hand, “I’m Brandy. Dean,” she vigorously shakes his then his brother’s hand, “and Sam. It’s a pleasure to finally set eyes on the Winchester boys.” Brandy releases her grip on Sam’s hand, only to pat him softly once, twice on the shoulder and smile. That’s all it takes, he’s in instant love with these women. 

Again with the walking and talking and Sam hears Dean huff, hopes the women don’t take it for rudeness. For all his crude behaviors, Dean likes a good solid show of respect, one on one face time and he’s probably irritable with Alicia showing nothing but the sway of her backside. She’s a beautiful portrait, purpose in her every move as she rounds the front desk and heads down a small hallway. They all follow down the brightly lit corridor a few more feet before happening on an open nurses’ station, its lab equipment, supplies, and machines spaced evenly around the countertops. What little paperwork there is, it's neatly placed in office desk bins. 

“You’re going to spontaneously combust and float your gargantuan ashes down on us just from the high level of organization, aren’t you?” Dean’s ribbing is a jab towards Sam’s compulsive tendencies but he does so with a minute flick of his hand across Sam’s wrist. Quick and down low where it wouldn’t be obvious and hell, if it was, Dean’s not caring anymore. He's here for Sam and despite the odd environment, he’ll try to get over his personal embarrassment and do what he damn well pleases. So there. Or not. Reining his fervor in, he blushes, heated warmth fills in his cheeks and spreads tar slow down his chest. He has no idea on the specifics of his and Sam’s boundaries in private, much less out in the wide open. 

Sam has his eyes peeled worriedly on the lab sample cups, acutely aware of a few new set of eyes on them when he feels Dean brush against him, a reassurance of sorts, and he breathes deeply. Alicia stays put, backed up against a row of stainless steel cabinets and the woman that was on the floor in the lobby – Stephanie, they say in introductions – stands a few feet away from the brothers. She leans forward over the chest high portions of the station’s desk. 

A well-built woman, looks to be in her mid to late thirties, moves forward. It’s Lexi, from outside, and now Dean's getting a real eyeful in the fluorescent lighting. Her light brown hair hangs in brown pigtails down over her chest. Dean sees nothing but dark brown irises with hints of green specks as he locks eyes with her and not onto her ample breasts; this, he feels should be deserving of some sort of reward considering how spectacular they appear beneath her camo green henley. For a crazy, topsy-turvy second he feels as if he’s staring at a more feminine version of Sam. If one were to think of Sam as a woman. One with a great set of tits. Which he’s totally not imagining at all. 

Lexi treads quietly over to them, a great trick considering her hefty combat boots, and gruffly introduces herself properly. “My apologies for the interruption earlier. And for the poor introductions outside. Name’s Alexandra Asben, chief physician OB/GYN. You’re here by way of Singer.”

Dean coughs to get Sam's attention then realizes he'll have to answer. “Bobby gave us your info, ma’am. Said to lie low, hush on the communication, until we got here and that he’d handle all the specifics sooo, here we are.” He desperately wants someone to note that he’s handling the situation like a champ because his brother is still eye fucking the lab equipment with awe and a touch of horror.

“Singer’s tight knit, friends of friends of family. Paranoid old codger, what’s kept him alive this long, all that I spy secret eye hermit living. Well first, I go by Lexi. None of that ma’am stuff anymore. Stick around for a few years, you can call me Lex. We’ve got quite the bit of time blocked out on our schedules from what I understand, Sam. Correct?” She gives a nod of acknowledgment and Sam manages to keep his eyes on the supplies and still nod a quick one in return.

“Whoa, we’re talking long haul? If there is one. Sam and I weren’t sure if this would work out, and if he’s carrying through to..” Dean’s skin is heated, splotchy spots he can feel across his hands and nose, “..to term, we want to know who all we’re living beside. Details or no game.”

The doctor puffs out an exhale but remains passive and motions around her, spying Trish swiveling about in her office chair and looking for all the world to be in a state of bliss. “Talk about comfy. All right then, I’ll do introductions. Lazy, lazy ladies,” The light peals of laughter settle Dean’s nerves, and Sam can’t be bothered more than a passing glance, a knowing look as he raises his eyes to Dean’s. 

One, they are surrounded by women. Literally - only three men to the place and the third of that equation is questionable given the boy is twelve. The Winchesters both feel a dude has to be able to grow stubble to even be considered in the running for ‘man’ but they’ll include the poor kid just to have the odds evened.

Two, they know the lobby lady’s voice and her laughter is seriously starting to set off alarms. She’s shorter than the others, at what looks to be five-six she’s a hair smaller than Alicia, straight black hair that falls inches down her back, more than likely crimped from being in a bun all day. She chances a look at them from where she’s leaning against the station’s countertop and where he and Sam thought she was typical pretty they both realize she's wildly attractive.

Ice blue eyes, no, not even ice blue, and Dean is about to speak up.

“Frosted ice.” Sam’s voice is wreaked. He’s hearing her, he’s tired, worried, and suddenly overprotective of his child and Dean.

Dean finds a free chair by the wall, situated right by the blood pressure cuffs. He slumps into it, stares everyone down. Sam pays him no mind, he’s done enough good cop/bad cop for the evening. Another quick look at who’s around them and Sam decides the women mean them no harm. Of course, he’s been dreadfully wrong before.

Lexi starts with Alicia’s details, current hunter, sweet, etc. It’s not been Sam’s thing these past months but he’s sure Dean’s noticed all the women’s physical attributes and this hunter is no exception. They both hold their tongue, even Dean understanding when to keep the appraisals off the table. 

Alicia has an olive complexion, hair in wavy brown curls down her back and she’s curvy in all the right places. She shakes their hands in a highly professional manner and disperses of the smirk she’d been toting since the parking lot, eyeing Sam’s pallor warily. “I’m the midwife of the group. I hold a few other social service type degrees, all centered around domestic violence and child protection. I’ll be assisting in whatever capacity you’ll allow me, Mr. Winchesters.” 

Brandy steps forward, grabs a ballpoint pen out of its designated container and clicks it on and off. “Helps. I’m stage shy.” She’s beautiful, complexion a deep ebony with hair that’s short and poufy, a perfect frame for her face. Large mocha eyes seek theirs and when she’s confident she has their undivided attention, she explains her own background. She speaks quickly of her previous husband and child, of how their deaths due to the paranormal was her stepping stone into the hunting lifestyle. It's heart wrenching, gives everyone listening pause, but to her credit, Brandy recovers lightning fast. The pen clicks, silver button in and out rapidly, as she briefly tells of a new husband, “Saved his stupid tush, vampires zeroed in on him…he’s a dentist for crying out loud. Out walking around New York City like he owned the place.” It’s fitting and comforting, the smile she wears when speaking of him. “I’m retired from hunting but couldn’t get away from the family, the life. I’ll be one of the R.N.’s taking care of you Sam.”

Before he can respond, Lexi flings her arm out and motions for Brandy, who goes willingly into her employer’s grasp. She snugs up tight and leans back as Lexi introduces the next staff member. Darvery, Trish, Trisha…they’re told any of those names will do. Dean decides right on the spot he wants to play a game of pool and drink a beer with this woman. She’s brash, funny, and doesn’t mince words. His kind of company.

“I’m your surgical R.N. and a retired hunter. My work and hunting all centered down in my old stomping ground of New Orleans.” Trish’s fingers walk and skate across the surface of an office phone as she goes on, long pulls of a thick Southern accent giving her voice an edge. 

“I was employed with Tulane University Hospital, hunted creepers throughout the bayous whenever I had down time. After the last hurricane, I’d had enough. S’when my sister and I switched places. She took over my job at the hospital and I moved up here on a tip from Miss Honey over there.” The blonde pixie-haired nurse points to frosty eyes. “Stephanie Mayfair, gentlemen." 

Stephanie, or Honey as the staff refer to her at times, looks awkward being the center of attention. She places her well-manicured fingers on top of the partition and pushes up and off, walking to where Sam’s standing. She stands with the back of one calf leant right against Dean, as if she thinks she can slot into their small cocoon. Dean, who has a hand up around Sam’s knee, rubbing small runes into the muscle and denim without noticing, he crooks his leg to move away from her. Stephanie blinks, eyes cold sparking to life. The group of women watch on, poised in what Sam recognizes as attack ready. They care and worry over her, whoever this woman is to them.

“Don’t worry ‘bout where it is you’ll be staying, hun. You’ll have a place, nice and cozy. Considering the type of things my dad’s side of the family gets up to, I’d say it’ll be owed to you both in spades. Blow your minds clear out of the water.” Her accent is thick as molasses, more grounded than Trish's, definite New Orleans drawl with something Dean knows. Bayou. He observes the woman's face closely, has no clue what she’s on about. She doesn’t look angry, isn’t posing an immediate threat. With her eyes crinkling in the corner she looks pleased. Stephanie stares pointedly at Dean’s hand, now wrapped protectively around Sam’s leg then cuts back up to Sam’s eyes. 

In a move no one sees coming, she kneels. One knee, stooped in front of Sam. And it’s really odd and totally uncomfortable and Dean thinks he's going to say and do something nasty and bodily harmful as the crazy lady leans in towards Sam’s abs. Sam tensed as soon as she knelt and he's already reaching towards his knife sheathed in his waistband. And then, oddly, he freezes. As Stephanie talks nonsense to his abdomen, her soprano voice hits him in the gut, echos off his soul and slams straight into Dean’s. 

They know this nondescript woman. 

“Don’t you fret, you three. Especially not you little one. Our dad may be an ass, messin’ around with things like he’d swore he’d never do, again, but he’d never let a thing hurt family. I know David Mayfair, true as the sun in the sky. Welcome to the family, sweetheart.”


	11. Chapter 11

There's the saying, “Shit happens.” Sam not so humbly wishes to include an addendum. 

One stating, “It’s usually invasive,” preferably without the tag line, “Winchester’s, to,” for the sole purpose of anonymity. He feels slightly narcissistic in believing both sayings do, in fact, encompass his and Dean’s rather short life spans. Empahsis on the 'spans'. However, it is this mindset, albeit a self-indulgent one, that assists in their somewhat unflappable hunter instincts. For instance, taking and then killing a lover does require a certain degree of sociopathic tendencies, after all.

Presently, glaring down on Mayfair with raised eyebrows and flared nostrils, Sam is able to control those instincts before he physically removes her from the vicinity of his abdomen. The woman is a bucket of crazy, one he can and does desire to cause serious bodily injury - simple as pie to reach out with both hands around her long length of neck, tendons delicate and breakable under his fingers, and throw her to the side. 

His voice is molasses thick, baritone rich, “Please, back off,” the most restraint he’s able exert over powerful emotions. After all, someone has to be the voice of reason.

She remains on the carpet, touching and talking to his stomach in hushed tones and foreign tongue, oblivious to the deadly threat around her. The mention of David, the last name, the coincidence and the relation--it's a pot of limited patience boiling, a train wreck destined to happen. Dean, a solid guard behind Sam’s back, his breathing so rabbit quick with anger that it steams in puffs over Sam’s neck, causes a mist of moisture down Sam’s jacket collar and past the collars of his shirt layers. Dean, who is bowled over as to how his family may now be genetically linked to not just one witch but a god damned boat load of them.

Witches, mind you, that he and the rest of the hunting community have very little documentation concerning. Rumor mills tout the unsubstantiated existence of a library overseas, one in which tomes and priceless art, invaluable documentation, and an armory of all things supernatural are housed. Rumors, as the likes of such a library with its prized possessions has yet to ever (as far as anyone knows), nor will ever, fall into any hunters' scrubby mitts. 

No, these witches are as far off the grid as the family can accomplish, renowned as they are. They're a paradox. Public, hidden, truly amazing given their family history is steeped in pride over their flaunting of notorious reputations, certain witches showcasing their sheer crazy in global arenas. Moreover, those aspects are nowhere near as notorious as the less-than-favorable mentions of their insane wealth or their bizarre propensity towards self-annihilation.

One of the nurses, Brandy, Sam remembers, recoils at the ensuing onslaught of finger pointing between staff and Dean, her petite hand slamming down on the laminated countertop. Then, and only then, the fuming lot of them pause, taking a deep collective breath as Sam backs away from the young Mayfair. His legs cave as he sinks into the chair previously occupied by his brother, long legs kicked out in front of him to avoid any other persons invading his personal space. 

Agreements are tossed about that it’s in the best interests of the children in the lobby for the adults to remain civil, leaving Alicia and Dean nearly biting through their bottom lips to keep from cracking wise and ugly about the situation. Making the situation over-the-top, and blindly ignoring Dean’s aggressive stance, Alicia gathers herself calmly and walks to where he is standing. 

She surprises the hell out of him as she sets out rubbing his shoulders intensely in a deep massage. Flirtation free, as if it helps to calm her nerves in relieving Dean of his troubles. Sam can’t help but watch as his brother’s back locks under her touch, as Dean tells Alicia she’s suicidal. Warning her, she may either remove her hands or he’ll do it for her, his body moving into a threatening posture until she follows through. That attitude, the bull in the ring, is nothing new. It’s an age-old protective gesture Dean has displayed throughout his life, mentoring Sam. Sam notes with a touch of guilt his appreciation. Truth be told, he wants to act out violently as well, knows neither of them will as they have no desire to upset the children in the lobby.

Truth be told, Sam is honored to have a brother who would sooner sip on champagne while getting a pedicure than let those kids go through any further trauma.

+

“Mmm, morning,’ ugly. Whatcha looking at?” Rubbing sleep sand out of his eyes, tiny spikes of hair askew, left arm and the left side of his face red and marked with pillow lines where he’d slept like the dead, Sam thinks Dean has a lot of nerve calling anyone ugly. 

He greets his brother, “Morning to you too, Heat Miser,” and shoulder scratches his chin as Dean shuffles past him through the kitchen on over to the counter. The coffee cups are located in the second cabinet to the left of the kitchen sink, haven’t changed since day one of boarding, and yet Dean still carries on a scavenger hunt. Each morning it’s the same thing, him grumbling this and that about people moving shit when he’s sleeping.

Dean yawns, stopping right before he opens the correct cabinet, throwing his whole body into a stretch, raising his pale arms and placing them, elbows sticking out, behind his neck. Rising up on his toes, he makes a move to bend backwards and Sam winces as a series of pops echo through the space. 

“Oh-ho my god, dude. What oil do you take and where do we get more?”

“Funny, Sam. Hah. Bed’s worth more than anything we’ve ever owned. Ever. And it’s killing me with these aches.”

“Yeah, Dean. It’s the bed. Not because you’re Yoda old.” Sam is still exhausted, years and years of no sleep and the past few nights have pampered him rotten. Turns out, Dean is just as big a diva. “Whatever, grab your mug, c’mere and look at this stuff.”

Dean hums in response as he opens the cupboard, one arm waving the “When pigs fly” mug in the air like a spoil of war, and makes for the freshly brewed pot of coffee. Stephanie has serious issues letting the carafe go empty, and the guys have determined that decaffeinated might actually be against her religion, so Dean makes sure to set up a new filter. Fills it to the brim with an expensive blend of dark roast grounds that smell so delicious Sam wants to shove a spoon of it in his mouth and savor. 

“How’s your tea, Ethel?”

Decaffeinated tea, a sacrilege to all things decent and nice. Sam nods to the tabletop in reply and taps his pointer finger on the rim of his white café mug. Dean’s stare follows the finger, looks at the faint brown stain a few stray drops caused from dribbling down the side of the mug, pooling around its base. Dean smiles to himself, pulls out one of the retro chrome kitchen chairs, sits down at the diner-esque table, and braces both elbows on the tabletop. 

“Good stuff ‘bout this afternoon?”

“Stuff,” Sam nods in answer, “S’what Alicia wanted me to look over; accompanies all the information Lexi gave us yesterday.” Sam scrubs his face quickly, fingers raking over the sharp stubble of his jawline. Messing with the wild hair causes a rasp, and Dean doesn’t think, simply puts a hand against Sam’s cheek. Pats gently a few times.

“Shave, dude. It'll be awkward to be on the exam table looking like a mountain man. Situation is already five shakes past _One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ weird, you know?” The order feels solid, right, his own sense of direction and thought process off kilter, and Sam totally doesn't feel gloomy that Dean stops touching him. Totally, which is why he fakes a cough and returns to gripping his coffee mug. 

“I think I’m ok with this. Still having doubts about not terminating, and yeah, we’ll talk some more with the staff, but I’m ok. Or somewhere in the realm of it, really. And, um...” Sam appears unsure of himself, too squirmy. Crap like that never does bode well for Dean but his coffee is bitter and black and his brain is starting to come online, therefore, he’s game.

“Spill it.”

Sam swallows around a ball of nerves, drinks it down with a sip of chamomile. He takes a sheet of paper that looks more chicken scratch than medical pamphlet font, scoots it across the small gap between them for Dean to review. Dean blinks away the remaining haze, lifting a small pinched corner of the paper and folding it over and back again.

“This about what I think it is?”

Sam coughs, lowers his eyes to a clean area of saucer his mug is sitting on. Normally, the topic is deliberately not discussed as the full scoop should come in the form of a sit down with Stephanie. He supposes their boarding host, they've been with her four days and counting, has tired of waiting for cues from either of them and the documents are her way of initiating conversation. “It’s Mayfair history. And that...” Sam taps the edge of a page Dean isn’t fiddling with, his thumb flicking the mess of stationary and his mouth sets in a grim smile at the resulting _fffttt_. “It’s all the dirt on their family, Dean. Listen, I know we’ve discussed what this could mean to the hunting community, but I’m,” he pauses, shoves another binder of stationary over, “Never mind. Just, here.” A discontent settles in the depths of his brother’s hazel eyes and that alone is going to kill Dean. A copy of the Mayfair Witch history, misplaced in moving boxes. Dean can’t wrap his head around the absurdity, so he opts to watch as Sam sits back in his chair, smiles as Sam is unaware that he’s rubbing his stomach. It’s no surprise Sam is off kilter, head a thousand miles in the stratosphere given the new relationship between them, given what they’re researching, and how the exam will go later in the day. No surprise, given they’re boarding with Stephanie. Dean says they're living in sin, shacking up, and when Lexi's around to hear it, she usually stretches out too far and _accidentally_ pops him on the ear, says to can it.

Stephanie apologized profusely over her initial behavior, saying she had been beside herself with the prospect of a newer lineage, a sister to call her own. They're not even convinced Sam's carrying a human, much less the gender. There were words. Knowing it wasn’t an acceptable excuse, she tried ridiculously hard to please them in hopes of making-up for her exuberance. It doesn’t hurt, paying for her mistake, that Honey’s house easily has abundant space, is the closest to town, and has the quickest route to the clinic.

Sam rubs the heels of his socked feet along the cool, patterned tile of the kitchen floor. Quiet, as his brother is still torqued and murmuring on at night about fucking male witches not pulling out. However, he does shut down his bodily flinch with a great deal of restraint as Dean seeks familiar comfort, his hand finding purchase on a slumped shoulder. They moved into the house two nights after they arrived, opting to stay in the clinic until Sam started waking up with leg cramps as the cots were too short. Countless times in shanties and dilapidated buildings with little more than the dirty floors to sleep on were fine while growing up, would do on hunts these days, but Sam needed more if they were going to stay upstate. 

Several key factors forced their hand on the lodging. One of them being, Stephanie’s house has more than one guest room. Which begs the question as to why the brothers’ duffels wind up in the same room - why they share a room, share the king size bed with its firm mattress and massive closet space. That first night together left them tossing and turning, the need to fight sleep, to keep at least one eye open, warring with exhaustion. 

The next two or three days wore on uneventfully, both brothers beginning to understand the ease of domestic life, letting it creep up on them, fool them into trusting more than they had any right to. As Stephanie typically exuded a sense of calm not seen at the clinic, both men were certain of magics being the culprit. 

Dean investigated every square inch of the main house, sorting from attic to basement, while Sam tackled the exterior, the manicured yard and beyond. Both discovered several totems, and Sam may have noticed the vegetation went the way of a witch’s garden with herbs and protective plants. When asked, their host assured them she had properly warded the house with angelica root, salt, and other defensive runes as any hunter worth their weight would. 

Magics. The term tears Dean out of his own head, and he’s back in the present, knocking knees with Sam under the table. The mood of the early morning is somber thanks in kind to the documents, but mostly due to Sam’s first thorough exam scheduled later in the afternoon.

“Read it later. We need to focus on preps for today. Which means, step one,” he pauses, pops a hand palm-flat against the tabletop, salt shaker vibrating, “it’s laundry day, Sam. You’re skunky and I can’t take it anymore. Ninety percent positive Stephanie is going to kick us to the curb if clothes aren’t washed. Game. All about the game and impressing the ladies.” Dean laughs as Sam’s eyes cut upwards, narrow slightly as they do when Sam wants his disdain to slice the distance. 

“There isn’t a soap product available on the market to cleanse your style of ‘dirty’, Dean.”

It’s been noticeable; Dean’s harmless flirting over the past few days, the entire staff privy to shoulder taps and ridiculous leers. Meaningless, he says. None of it meant to be harmful, nothing that would make a person backhand him. His major deterrence are those infamous slanted eyes - Sam cutting him scathing looks without inhibition these days, wet blanket on Dean’s lighthearted fun.

The hours tick by; days, nights since their world blew wide open, and Dean is dealing poorly with this strange desire for Sam to be more for him emotionally and physically. Even now, looking at the big idiot skating a piece of buttered toast around his plate, the urge intensifies, consumes his thoughts. They’re tough stock, him and Sam, neither delicate, emotional flowers. Old habits are hard to quit but these newfangled emotions are cutting him to the quick. 

Truth is, Dean isn’t dealing more than Sam can handle. He won’t allow it from anyone else and especially not at his own hand. So here Dean is, playing out the scenarios at an unseemly time of the morning, being his own worst critic. Incest, molesting his kid brother - the 6 foot four grown brother he’ll toss in – and liking it, the magical whammy from David...those terms he throws around to keep his head screwed on straight; spin it, twist it, it’s still going to be Sam for him. 

The end, period. 

With the relentless side eyeing and the off-color remarks, it’s a relief to notice Sam, perhaps, reaching the same conclusion – and isn’t that just like them though. Separate ideals, differing styles, opposing paths and eons of time apart. Heaven and Hell against them and they wind up in each other’s pockets, floating on the same wavelengths every damn time. 

Soul mates and all that bullshit.

Dean shakes himself from the spiral, again, and he has to stop that mess. Sam has destroyed his breakfast, crumbs on his lower lip which Dean struggles not to lick off. “Dude, don’t worry. You’ll be the first pretty princess to see me in my clean underwear, no need to pout.” Dean gives an innocent grin, top shelf variety, and stands to go refresh his coffee. Maybe first lean down and across to kiss the sour right off Sam’s face. Emotions blazing, Sam is stunned at the level of nonsensical jealous discord Dean's statement brings about in him. He grabs his brother’s jaw on the bend down, lips barely brushing as both men move lightening quick, causing a strange stalemate. Dean’s own rough scruff rubs against the tip of Sam’s chin, stirring a spike of heat in the pit of Sam’s stomach. 

This close, Dean’s lean muscle mass and eyes half-lidded, Sam understands every conquest his big brother pursued, why they all leaped to shift aside their panties. Sam’s not a drunken, two-bit conquest though, and yeah, he’d be an idiot if he let the knowledge of his brother’s quirks and mannerisms go to waste. “Don’t you dare,” he whispers, threatens against plump lips, their morning breath, tea and coffee scents mingling. “I know you need to keep riling me, getting under my skin. Problem for you, big brother, is it’ll take a hell of a lot more than a wink of humor and a fucking kiss.” 

Sam stares innocently up into shaded eyes, says softly, doesn’t move an inch, “Jerk.”

Dean’s utter surprise at his brother’s sudden admission of interest has him give a loud bark of a laugh. Minor victory, one step towards feeling content and Dean can’t help himself; he brings his pointer finger down to trace gently the pooch above Sam’s boxers. Scrapes his cheek to Sam’s, scruff to scruff, gives a wink and then…

“Dramatic bitch”

\+ 

“I’m sorry for the pain, Sam, truly. Can you relax? Take a deep breath.”

“Relax. Right, look Dr. Asben, I appreciate what you and staff are doing for us so it’s nothing against you,” Sam pauses to stare at the patterns on the tiled ceiling, “but I’m getting really sick of people telling me to…Jesus!”

There’s a series of hard raps on the exam room door from the hallway followed by Dean loudly informing everyone in the clinic that he’ll salt and burn them all if they hurt his brother and would Sam just get the fuck over himself and let him come in the goddamned room, “Right now, Sam. This martyr routine isn’t funny.”

The urge to pacify his brother is a nagging headache, the women in the clinic no doubt completely stressed due to Dean’s tirade, only Sam’s otherwise occupied as there are slender, gloved fingers working open and into his new orifice. He’s a genius with multi-tasking but this is a joke. 

Lexi’s fingers still at the interruption - two slender digits an inch into Sam’s new channel, or as everyone in the room has since discovered, his very own vagina. He nodded, mortified, face pinched at the news. He wanted to destroy, maim, when informed his new genitalia tested the same in elasticity as a woman’s upon insertion; the stretch decent, so far, for a natural childbirth event. 

Calmly, the doctor returns to her exam – slowly moving further up – and she makes a comment as to not encountering the hymen. It settles wrong in his psyche, Sam thinking the manipulation is akin to losing a version of his virginity, and he despises how vulnerable that leaves him. The intense pressure, fullness in a region he’s up until now given a wide berth, loosens in him an unwelcome uncertainty he’s not felt since his prepubescent years.

Alicia stands to his right, soothing on his shoulder the downbeat rhythm of a jazz song he grapples with remembering – slow, light circles then twist, rub, twist. Her eyes focus past Asben’s shoulder. The exam is being recorded, a small camcorder set up at the doctor’s point-of-view (his groin), the doctor herself enunciating clearly to Sam and the recording as she explains each step. 

Sam’s mind stutters with the images playing out on the small flat screen linked to the camera, unbelieving that those are his masculine legs in the air, his socked feet in the stupid stirrups, and that’s his ass exposed and hanging off the end of the damn table.

Brandy sits on a lifted spinning stool by his left thigh, squeezes his knee in sympathy, and whispers affirmations. Sam half-heartedly listens, sight locked on the medical equipment around the room as Asben’s fingers continue for what he assumes must be another thirty thousand miles. Her voice steady as she ventures, he sees the plum of Brandy’s scrubs, focuses on a speculum (remembers how Jess said she hated the pinch) sitting in a jar of liquid atop a heating plate.

His thighs, angled high and wide apart by the exam table’s stirrups, start to shake. He curses, and he’s a strong guy, seen more than three lifetimes full of turmoil but his feelings decide to stage a coup. He’d asked that Dean stay out in the hall, too embarrassed in this state. The tide, however, is turning, eddies of self-doubt pulling him under with Dean’s name a breath away on his lips. 

“Sam? Okay, I’m not continuing if it’s too stressful. I have no qualms stopping this right now.” No response prompts Lexi to call out, “Alicia?”

His traitor eyes are screwed shut as wisps of hair, citrus scented, touch his brow as the midwife bends down. A soft hand, strong bones, rests across his forehead, soft thumb stroking the tension lines of his brow, a reassuring voice in his ear, low enough for only him to hear. 

“Enough, hun. Enough. Let me call him in here, okay?”

Sam doesn’t open his eyes. Not after he nods, not when Brandy stands to open the door while Asben keeps her fingers inside his business. The door opens, a brief undercurrent of panic breezing into the room and still, his eyes are closed.

The thumb on his forehead moves away, light touch leaving behind deepening worry lines. He misses it, the small contrast of pleasant versus the sharp sting happening in his groin. He sighs, “ohhhh,” as another hand takes over Alicia’s spot, callouses firing off a litany of familiar comforts – hands that gave wedgies and sewed sutures, delivered punches and gave head dunks in lake waters. Those hands are resting on his forehead.

“Sam, I told you, you gigantic…,” Dean stops nagging in response to an unheard admonishment, his breath whisping across Sam’s cheek, “yeah, yeah, nurse Ratchet with the death threat, I get it. No scolding him, right? You’re so stupid Sam. So stupid, like I wanted to pop a squat, down a couple of beers near your junk. Hey,” he’s so steady, so sure. “Hey. C'mon now. Sammy, open your eyes.”

Sam tenses as he thinks on orders a million years ago, _I can follow instructions, Dad_ , blinks his eyes open up and away from his brother’s face, focusing instead on synchronizing with Dean’s breathing. Loses himself in it and the fluorescent lights of the room.

“We’re set now, Sam? I’m going to press up further.” Dr. Asben wants to finish, get her job done neatly and give her patient a chance to come down.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, words clogging the way. “Yes. Dean?”

“What’s that, Sam?”

Talking through the intrusion helps him; at least he thinks it will. “That time in Blackwater Falls, you remember those cottages?”

Sam feels the moisture in his eyes build up without his permission, the slide of it down his cheeks bringing with it a surge of internal anger. 

“Holy crap!” Dean’s voice is strained, and a small chorus of _shooshes_ comes his way. It’s a sign Dean looked at the monitor. “Uh, sure, sure. You earned your medal that weekend, dude, putting up with me. Blackwater Falls was the two-week flu, right? You and me roasting our brain cells together. Thought demons had fixed it so we were both in hell, and we were too stupid to know the difference. What a thing to think about now, man.”

Sam smiles, his lips sticking to his teeth, dry mouth, and he chews his tongue for a split second as sweat burns hot down his cheeks.

Dr. Asben is bumping and maneuvering, Sam’s groan of contempt loud when she states to the room that Sam’s cervix is in perfect position. His stomach churns as the doctor shifts, his skin goose pimples, and he wants to kick his brother. Dean will not quit checking out the monitor, mouth open in a perfect “o”, eyes bugging out.

They both remain silent, the only noise being the crinkling of the exam table’s paper as Lexi details how she’s assessing the weight of the womb, “Oh. _Ohhh_. Definitely feels like a pregnancy in there.” Next, she uses her free hand to apply pressure on his swollen abs, “Lower quadrant. Most people don’t realize just how far down the kit and caboodle is,” while pressing up internally, as she finds the top of the womb. 

“Fundus,” she says. Her fingers slip free from within, the nerve-wracking sensations gone with a slick squelch of lube, and Sam shudders. 

Brandy leaves the men to their own bubble, searches a drawer under the exam table and pulls out a small electronic device. She hands it over once the doctor removes her gloves and washes. Lexi explains it’s a microphone then presses it down firm against Sam’s lower abdomen. She increases the dip of pressure, a bit of pain surprising him as she moves the wand device around a patch of stomach an inch or two below his navel. Continues until a shock of sound comes through the wand’s box. 

“The hell?” The room fills with a whooshing noise, garbled as if underwater, Dean rocking back as far as he can without letting his hand fall away, bumping into the lacquered cabinets behind him.

“That, Dean, is a heartbeat. So, Sam, it sounds healthy. Normal.” Lexi understates the information but it’s no matter as Sam - he’s in a different hemisphere, body and mind disconnected.

With that, the next sound alongside the fluttering and frantic whooshes is Sam’s grunt, brought back to himself as he is bore down on, his brother kissing the ever-living hell out of him.

+

There is aftermath.

Staff leaving the room, Dean kicked out as well, as Sam is told he can have privacy to clean up. “Millions of women, young girls even, going through this every single day,” he thinks as he uses the paper that had covered his groin to wipe away remaining lube. He's at the very least prepared at the spots of blood on the paper as he brings it up to throw it away. He’s sucking it up and dealing when he places a sanitary pad in his boxers, with wings, his brain supplies. Chokes on a laugh.

Sam is no sooner zipping his jeans, washing his hands and splashing water on his face, than he knows he and Dean will be taking a nice long drive. The familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine cuts through the lobby’s delicate quiet and Sam is in the lobby, standing at the clinic’s only front window. He watches his brother climb out of the driver’s seat and pace beside the car, cellphone pressed to his ear.

Sam feels the curious stare of a lone girl, young – perhaps twelve at the most, as she waits in the lobby. Wide blue eyes peek out at him from behind a gossip magazine but her attitude changes, rolling her baby blues and mumbling a few curses when Sam drops the pretense of not knowing she’s looking. He can honestly nod in sympathy towards her and she gasps, goes back to hiding behind the glossy rag she’s reading. His own attitude in check, Sam makes for the interior clinic door with a smile, pushing open the outer steel one and limping, not too terribly bad, out into the clean, crisp air of early evening.

Finally seated, buckled, and situated, both Sam and Dean are ready for a change of scenery. Neither speaks a word, a tenuous non-verbal agreement not to ruin the moment until well on their way. Sam’s stomach lurches when the Impala spins out of the parking lot, one hand flying up to his mouth in a clenched fist hoping his day’s intake won’t reappear. 

Dean looks over to see Sam turn pale, green around the gills, and reaches into his coat pocket. He finds the small bag of almonds from the clinic's vending machines and tosses them into Sam’s lap. “Eat ‘em. Pasty isn’t a good look on you.”

Sam makes a noncommittal noise and grabs the snack with his free hand. Dean's gaze is strictly on the road and he maintains a loose body posture, relaxes as the highway flies by. They’ve been stationery for a week, one week too long, and the kinks are showing in their armor. Another hour slips past, the small towns along Highway 29 visible in the light of motion detector light, a mix of big rig washes, barns, and road stops; they’re losing themselves in the Impala’s engine purring and the occasional gurgling of Sam’s irate stomach.

“We’ll flip around at the next coffee drive-thru; apple cider light enough to tackle?”

“Believe or not, that actually sounds doable.”

The sign for the coffee shop says they’ve another mile, and it’s a half-mile past that when Dean bangs out a tune on the steering wheel. A tell, a common one meaning there’s a discussion on the horizon. He won’t go there, not until Sam has a belly full of warm doughy carbs and a tart liquid. Nothing sweet as Sam’s morning sickness reacts violently to sugary items. It’s been a source of frustration, when cravings rear up for chewy candy, a sweet pastry. Dean’s one on one is also going to be properly fueled by an XL cup of piping hot caffeine.

Thirty minutes later find both men happy, content, the mixed smells of spiced apple, roasted coffee, toasted bagels – Dean’s with bacon and egg – not inciting a riot in Sam’s gut. So yeah, Sam is stoked, and he cracks the window to let in a cool breath of air.

Dean groans; his sandwich isn’t finished, and now he has to contend with Sam’s ass. “It was going so well! I’m declaring war on your digestive system.”

“Dean. I didn’t.” It would be easy to feel an affront to the assumption except Sam has gassed them out on several occasions.

Unconvinced, Dean waits with his hand on the window handle and gives a sigh of relief, fresh air intake, as the car is free of toxic fumes. Sam snorts at the reaction and sips at the plastic lid of his cider, acidic apple and cinnamon making him limp noodled, light headed. 

“Act as prissy as you want: your ass is still lethal, and I will not apologize.”

“Mhmm.” Sipping, eyes trying to close on him.

“That’s right, mhmm. I’m onto you.”

“Do you even realize how paranoid you sound?”

“Death by chemical warfare is a serious matter, worth a bit of paranoia.”

Bitching loses ground, Sam laughing so hard he holds his sides and abdomen from the force of it. Holding firm is impossible, Dean lasting less than ten seconds, his brother’s body shaking happily bringing about his own hundred-watt smile. Brief, this bubble they’re in doesn’t last – can’t – and it’s ready to pop. They’ll free fall, no soft landings. Dean’s smile fades, tucking his chin down towards his chest as he squints and pulls his mouth in from concentration. Legs a mile long under the steering column, bent at the knee, boot sliding back and forth in limited space.

“Ever think you’d have a kid, Sammy?” Conversing freely is a foreign realm, a galaxy far, far away. Middle earth. Both want to sweep the conversation under the proverbial rug, but Sam feels he more than owes this rare opportunity his full attention. Dean’s not lifting his chin, scowling at his jeans as if they’re calling his favorite cock rock tape a joke.

“No.” Sam hesitates, hearing the scrape of a five o’clock shadow rub against fabric, Dean lifting his head. Sam remains facing the scene outside the passenger door, the parking lot they’re in near to empty. A few 4x4’s and a Jeep loaded down with a group of teenyboppers hanging out the sides going through the coffee shop’s drive-thru.

“Jess and I didn’t want any until we were settled, career-wise, married. Playing the field in college. Once we had any, if at all, we would stop fooling around in the scene. No more extra-curricular activities. So, no, never planned.”

Dean is stuck on a loop of new information and what to say next isn’t coming. Sam has always battened down the hatches, tight lipped on bits and snippets on life with Jess. Even then, Sam has to be two sheets to the wind or into a new round of new age self-reflection. Sam inhales, head lifting a nudge with the action, centering and redirecting the flow of conversation. He duck faces in concentration as well, family trait, and turns to face Dean. Eyes not catching his brother’s, chin angled and cheek resting light against his jacket. Dean thinks he looks younger in the fluorescent parking lot light, Dean’s Sammy.

“I uh,” a pause, Sam clearing his throat to prevent the cracks and gravel from lacing the words, “I wanted to let myself dream a few times about keeping it.” Her. The thing inside him is a viable pregnancy with a gender if they're to believe Stephanie. “How’s that going to be possible? I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know, don’t know.” Stopping, Sam inhales loudly, and Dean’s there to meet him. “I still want you. I know that. You get that, right? That I want you and me to try to figure out what’s going down between us. Especially if it’s just us.”

Dean nods, doesn’t have to speak and really, he shouldn’t as he's afflicted with a horrible scratching sensation in his throat. He clears it, making a too loud noise inside the car, and pounds a fist into his right thigh. “Good.”

Another town full of generic shopping malls on the return trip, and they’re flying down the highway, another twenty minutes ticking by. They’re only thirty minutes from Steph’s house, temporary base camp, and Sam’s glad for the short span. Breaking the silence is really going to suck.

“I was wondering where we’d keep it, you know? No jobs for either of us. Bobby’s offered to get us on our feet, lie low. But there’s affording the rent, childcare when we do find jobs. Cost of diapers alone is going to break us. It’s not as if we’re living in some Harlequin paperback, one where you get the mechanic job that magically pays the bills, the mortgage, and baby supplies while I do what, exactly? Be a stay at home dad?”

“Finances? That’s your argument here?” Dean shoots an incredulous glance at his brother. Sam isn't pissed off but he's slouched, rambling on and dorking around in the glove compartment for god knows what because he cannot talk and keep from squirming at the same time. It counts for something that it’s merely talking and they’re not at each other’s throats. 

“Don’t do that, Dean. Don’t make my excuses sound trivial. C’mon, seriously? What would we do? I sure as hell don’t know how to cart a kid around everywhere, raise them up like you and dad did me in this lifestyle. We’ve enough strikes to constantly be on the look-out for the authorities, and once again we’ll be hounded by CPS.”

“So this freak-out you’ve been holding in, talking about abortion, this has to do at all with not knowing how to actually care for a kid or you know,” Dean flutters his hand in the proximity of his groin, “popping it out. That part sucks balls, Sam, but it’s doable. No offense but I raised your sorry ass and I’m pretty damn proud of how that turned out.” Dean stops. Let’s himself off the hook for once. “Look, I’m not fighting one way or the other, your body. The fact is, you and I can make it work if that’s the route you choose to go.” A few seconds tick on by when Dean finishes. “Peanut gallery? Interesting. It pains me to be this right all the damn time, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes, half-heartedly punches the leather seat. “Dean.” It’s a low warning growl; Sam needs to take another break. 

“Nope, Sam. You staying home, whatever - do what you want. It’ll wear you thin, I know that much. So, I’ll be hired on as stable bitch, sling food at a diner, and yes, I’ll even work in a garage to supplement childcare. Mom and dad made it work. You know what, that’s…sorry.” Guilt is written all over his face, Dean trying to hide it.

The mention of Mary and John brings Sam up short. Though not in the sense it does Dean, which will require serious questioning of himself later on. What makes sense are mom and dad’s sacrifices, and Dean breaking down the excuses Sam had thrown out into small shards. On the other hand, while raising the baby is doable, the issues aren’t miniscule, and Sam is going to continue grappling with those.

It isn’t what Sam expects, what Dean says next, and Sam’s nearly overwhelmed. There’s this itch to stand up, walk around, as the confines of the Impala stifle him. “You need to man up and tell me this crap before it takes you down. Hell, I need to man up and deal with it. ‘Cause you are capable, Sam. I know you want to step outside the situation, run away. I’m asking you not to.” 

Sam cracks the passenger window a tiny bit more, lets the cold night air chill his cheeks as the smell of wood fires drifts into the car. “We hunt. We hunt and that’s all we do aside from holing up at Bobby’s for a week – once or twice a year. It’s…you’ll stick by when everything falls apart and the sleep deprivation adds to the lack of money for food for us, the illnesses and screaming and crying for no reason?”

Without missing a beat, Dean offers, “I get your bitchy attitude as is, dude. No need to threaten me with postpartum, Sam.” Dean’s smirk and quick second glances back and forth from the road to him give Sam enough information. His brother is serious as a heart attack. Dean isn’t coming right out, discounting his former support statements but - but he wants this baby. He wants this piece mill kind of life he thinks they could provide for it. 

“Dean,” Sam says slowly, as if he’s talking with a dim-witted person, “Oh my god, you complete ass. Don’t, okay? Just stop and think about this.” 

“Don’t what? Tell you you’re being slow? C’mon, having Steph for a cousin, your baby daddy being old as dirt,” and Dean is banking on this reaction, the gnarly bitchface Sam throws him, “this kid’s going to make crazy the new trend; she automatically inherits the cool points for being a Winchester. Let’s just hope she gets my good looks. I’m counting on one of your rogue DNA bits having my genetic code for the all-American package.” 

Dean snaps his head to Sam, bangs out a tune on the steering wheel. He raises and lowers his eyebrows several times to carry the point home. 

Sam can play. He’s nowhere near signed and sealed the deal, sick with worry, but he can play. 

“So, she’ll get your good looks, your attitude, and she’ll have every boy in a two state vicinity on speed dial. Cool car like the Impala, plenty of room in the back seat, and she’ll have guys over...”

He’d finish but Dean’s face is suddenly a nice shade of bright red, fingers once tapping out a Rolling Stones tune turning rigid and that sweet mouth of his is set in a paper thin line. “You are a shitacular comedian, Sam, and I’m beginning to have concerns over your rights to raise this or any other kid.”

It’s the perfect background noise to Dean’s sulking when Sam begins singing with abandon, laughing. 

+

Three a.m. rolls around with a vengeance, still of the early morning hour ringing loud. Sam’s curled in the fetal position on their bed, a large mass of brother smothering him from behind amidst a tossed quilt and grey flannel sheets. Dean’s body is a furnace of oppressive heat and they’re so sweat tacky they stick together. Sam’s disgusted: his boxers are stuck in the cracks of his ass and worse, his other, they both reek of body odor and their breath could probably melt metal. 

Suddenly irate, pissed off, Sam shoves at weighted hairy limbs, pushes at a cotton boxer clad hip, and manages to untangle from his brother’s hold. He frees himself of the offending covers, kicks his feet loose, and moans like a whore in church as the cool air of the room hits his toes. Flipping, he turns to face his brother and nearly vomits as a waft of ferocious morning breath hits him dead on. Not wanting to make a mad dash for the commode as he’s fucking exhausted and finally comfortable, he tries--tries to focus on the lingering ache between his legs. Prodding and shifting in areas never meant to be explored, the exam left a dull throb, manageable. His embarrassment isn’t as easily ignored, his reaction to the exam and all it entailed causing him a migraine and wreaking havoc on his ego.

Dean continues to rest, body inching closer to Sam’s and rustling the sheets that drape across his ass. Sam can’t remember the last time he’s seen his brother’s back devoid of cramped muscles and twitches, nightmares physically battering him. Tonight is one of those times, Dean resting extremely well. Rising up, he tucks his arm under his pillow, glances over at the nightstand on Dean’s side of the bed and sees a familiar binder and beside that, a stack of loose leaf papers. 

The papers are held down by a large, smooth stone, one big enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Nothing ordinary except, and even from this angle and distance he can see it, there’s an etching across its top. He knows from the various other wards found throughout the house that the scribbled writing was done by their host’s hand.

Swiping his other hand’s fingers against Dean’s forehead, he slicks back a few spiked hairs; Sam gives in, allows himself leeway to be the creepy guy in the relationship. The one who touches, smells--spies. The sheets rumple under his weight as he scoots closer, ignoring the waves of heat, then he runs the barest touch across a sculpted, muscled shoulder. Tracing scars, a few returned by Cas upon request for whatever reason Dean deemed worthy. 

Sam traces a jagged outline, the length of a pencil, raised tissue from the wound and the large needle dad used to piece the chunk of flesh back together. One of the few returned from when Dean was fifteen, both of them racing through the woods of southern Virginia. Dean was slower on his feet but adept at dart and dash, so that and a cocky attitude meant not paying attention and he took a header, foot catching on a fallen branch. 

Autumn leaves had kicked up in a whirlwind around Dean’s prone form and Sam had gotten the giggles. That is until he saw blood; the deep red-blues soaking through Dean’s black Quiet Riot t-shirt. Running forward, same branch, same misstep and Sam hit hard. On the chilled ground, face planted, and Sam discovered the branch was scrap metal. 

Sam quits rubbing and brings his hand down to his own stomach, feels along the puffiness to trace the matching scar. Longer and horizontal to Dean’s vertical. Sleep is a fleeting desire, unattainable, as he’s too engrossed in his brother and their memories. He ignores his side table’s alarm, looks to the far bedroom wall and checks the dainty clock hanging there. 

Four a.m. 

Sliding out of the bed, he yanks his robe off the back of the door and readjusts the sheets and quilt, covering Dean to the mid-line of his back. Grabbing the binder and documents, he heads out the bedroom, shuts the door behind him and makes his way down the stairs. 

The small kitchen is already lit, welcoming as he walks through the living room. The smell of steamed milk hits him square in the gut, and surprisingly, it makes his stomach grumble. Stephanie is standing by the stainless steel stove, stirring a mug full of hot beverage and humming. She’s wearing her hair down, the long black strands cradling her face, bunching and spilling past the collar of her robe. 

The dark blue terry cloth robe practically swamps her frame, he can barely see her hands or the tips of her panda bear socks, and the plush fuzz seems so soft, Sam wants to say ‘fuck it’ and rub his body up on it. He can feel his cheeks blazing with the thought and he coughs, shuffling up to the table like a five year old. Stephanie turns to smile at him, sleepy eyed and adorable; Sam has a bizarre pool of protectiveness bubble up, wash over him at the sight. 

“Sorry if the smell woke you.” Her voice is Southern fused, drawl overdone in her tired state. She fiddles around the granite countertop and turns a couple of glass decanters with silver lids around for him to see. 

Without waiting for an answer, “I filled ‘em up with new syrups, sugar type in all. Sorry, I know the refined products give you a mess of a time but this is all natural, raw product. Trust me, it’ll settle you and give the steamed milk a good flavor. Caramel or mocha?”

“Mocha sounds fantastic. Thanks, Stephanie.” Sam plops down at the table and takes his eyes off his host to look around the room. 

The kitchen is immaculate, cleaned from the evening's late meal. They'd returned to the house and were greeted with giant helpings of spaghetti and meatballs. To be exact, that food was for the two persons not prone to acid reflux while Sam was treated to a plate of roasted red potatoes tossed with olive oil and a pinch of garlic salt along with a small salad. His appetite was coming back gradually as the reverse was true of the grating need to bring his food back up. 

The clink of coffee mugs brings his attention back, Stephanie’s socked feet sliding as she moves to pour the milk and shots of syrup into another mug. Bringing the drinks to the table, she jerks her head back a touch, one eyebrow raised and the other slanted, amused as Sam’s stomach gives a loud rumble. He watches with amazement as the normally quiet and pensive woman giggles to the point of wiping a tear from her eye. 

“Now that’s the kind of kudos a girl can get used to. Love it.” She quiets as Sam takes a tentative first sip, hums his pleasure, and then takes a long drag of the drink. “See, delicious. You brought the papers and things down, I’m glad. If you’d like, I’d enjoy going through and answering any questions you’ll likely have. Okay?” 

Taut lines mar Stephanie’s face, visible emotions that she keeps verbally locked down - usually. They’d been warned of Honey’s looks and sneers, told they were nothing more than care and concern and not to take it personally. Dean blows the moods and the expressions off, his head wrapped round where they go from here, but Sam wants to ease every single mark off her face – smooth them down to the serene she wears so well.

“I want Mayfair history and no beating around the bush, okay? Dean and I know enough in gossip and rumors to be dangerous, but, and no offense, neither of us has ever heard of David or yourself.”

Honey settles back into her chair, the outline of her legs crossing at the ankles, and grabs her mug with both hands. “I’ll start with David and try to keep things simple. Try. That binder,” she taps it with one short nail, “is the more in-depth version of his genealogy. It’s the other side of the family. You need to remember, I didn’t write any of this; David stored and relocated these documents in safe houses for well over two hundred years. He caved, and no, I’ve not asked why, and gave the lot to a novelist down in New Orleans. She’s writing a chronicle of the family’s history, but that’s between the two of you and me now, isn’t it?”

Request heard, Sam tacks it on to a hundred other secrets he has to keep for his and Dean's safety. “Sure, yeah. Wait a minute though, there’s something I don’t understand. Doesn't that conflict with what the first pages describe: a group, some sort of cult…the Talamasca. They’re the ones with the true information, what hunters have been gossiping about? That they did the research?”

Honey nods, glances over Sam’s shoulder to the pale lavender of the kitchen walls. “Yes, but they…look, Sam, they don’t get involved with all the intricate, intimate details. Well, when they do it’s usually extreme in the fatal sense of the word and against their nature.” She sighs deeply and meets him eye-to-eye, “Suzanne Mayfair, David’s half-sister, she and her daughter got caught up with one member of the Talamasca. Petyr. That fact doesn’t seem to have been in the family’s best interest, in my opinion. It’s all there. Took me two years to sort through the mess and I still have to consult the documents thanks to the excessive amounts of inbreeding, but, it is all there.”

Sam’s hand already rests on his belly; he’s going with hunter instincts kicking in to full swing at the mention of all the witches and their spirits. “Honestly, I don’t want to read about it right now. Right now, I want your take on the power of the family, the Other I saw mention through skimming this. The one Suzanne called on and passed down the generations. I want to know why you and David don’t…I wasn’t aware that familial magics were present without an Other.” 

Stephanie cuts in immediately, “David and Suzanne have the same mother, Sam. However, that’s all they share. I’ve no idea her name and David rarely speaks of her except to say that she was a village healer. You boys being hunters, you know that’s a glorified way of saying she had a way with witchcraft. Reportedly she was dim-witted, Suzanne the same, and that she was more beautiful than any woman had right to be.

“David’s father, Pedro Dias, was a Peninsular, Spanish born upper echelon residing in the New World, and he was on a routine visit to his homeland when he stopped to tour Europe. His first port of call was Donnelaith, Scotland. Pedro was filthy rich, worth untold fortunes, and that, along with his political affluence, secured with the village elders an anonymous place in David’s mother’s bed.” Honey pauses to sip her milk. The early morning light is less ebony, more ink blue ocean, the stars fading from view through the kitchen window.

Steph continues, stands to refill her mug, “On Pedro’s return to the New World, he revisited Donnelaith, found he had a son. David was two at the time his father took him. I think. I'll have to reread. So yeah, he took him. Flat out stole him from the mother. David’s name, the one given at birth, is still a mystery. David never met Suzanne as she was second, born two years after he'd long since vanished.” She catches her breath, icy eyes twinkling in excitement as she garners Sam’s full attention.

The steady tick of the kitchen clock gives yield to the toll of deep chimes from the mahogany grandfather clock in the formal dining room, ringing out six a.m. Stephanie looks past Sam, nods a hello, and Sam bends his head back, rolls it from side to side, as his back arches, stretches. He hums in relief as the cramps in his lower back release, and smiles at Dean. His brother leans in the kitchen entrance, listening, bowlegs and bare feet, eyes puffy from sleep.

“Hey. What’re you doing up? You were out like a log.”

Dean scrubs a hand at his jaw, scratching at the scruff on his neck, and when he answers, it’s in his morning baritone, “Yeah, about that. I had a dream the giant from that Beanstalk story had a thing for my hair. Started toying with it and making googly eyes at me.” Dean shivers; he's rumpled and grouchy looking as he makes his way over to the stove, running a hand along Sam’s neck on the way. Sam thinks Dean's dream was more nightmare related than what he's letting on, sometime after Sam had come downstairs, given the black circles under his eyes. Pick a number, no telling whether it was heaven or hell this go-around. 

A disgusted grunt over by the oven has Stephanie and Sam turning. “Gross, you two. This is just nasty. What type of yahoos put milk on the stove?”

“Such a sweet ‘lil buttercup of sunshine in the morning. He always like this?” Stephanie may be new to their banter but her smirk is as big as her sneer, and Sam is elated to have an instant partner in crime.

“Tell you what, lady. You make it better with beer or something greasy to eat, and I won’t do something hilarious like hide all your pretty colored candles.”

Sam can’t reply with a mouthful of milk, mostly amazed he hasn’t choked to death with Dean’s brazenness, but Stephanie has the free and clear. Sam should probably intervene, knows it was a nightmare for sure as Dean doesn’t enjoy beer in the morning unless he’s spending time in Hell at night. 

“Beer’s in the fridge, although, I will judge you hard for drinking this early. Still, you can walk your lazy tush over and get it yourself. And I catch one of your mitts on my candles, Dean Winchester, and I’m going to have Sam here help me get you out back and turn the hose on you…you hear me boy.” 

Dean is already head deep in the fridge, beer bottle in hand, ass sticking out when Steph starts chastising and fussing him up and down as if she’s anywhere near old as him. By the time she’s finished, he’s pulled himself out of the fridge, cocky grin falling off his face as soon as he looks her way. The woman is so serious, body posture rigid and her mouth thinned out, that Dean actually has a momentary flashback of Mary scolding him. 

“Dean, you should sit down.” Sam has mercy on his brother and kicks out a chair with his foot. Dean spins it around, sitting with his chin propped up on crossed arms. Dean makes a “go ahead” motion with the hand holding the beer, and Honey obliges.

“David showed quite interesting paranormal developments when he was younger. You’ll remember your history lessons from school and know the,” she pauses, eyes clouded, “The distaste for the craft, even when used wisely. Pedro was fiercely protective of his son and kept his secrets guarded well. By David’s fifth birthday, he was experiencing visions and telling of future events, all with a high rate of accuracy. By seven, he knew the lay of the land six countries wide and what agriculture, herbs, grew the best and where. By nine, he knew how to invoke, impart, disperse and heal with the use of those exact herbs and with his own inner power. 

“David was seventeen when his father passed away. My mother, a healer in her own right, told me the event traumatized him so severely that he hired an old magics healer, studied under her tutelage for decades. The woman and he traveled, steering wide from his Mayfair relatives and their self-ruin. He and his teacher recovered long forgotten rituals, eventually settling on enough magics in their repertoire to take care of David’s pesky mortality issue. The last time I saw him he said the only good that ever came of it was me, and I’m sure now, he feels the same of your little one.”

Sam’s entranced, wants to hear more, but the idea of David manipulating him being anything near a good thing is infuriating. “No offense ma’am, but this is not a blessing. We hunt and kill his kind. This goes against every bit of nature out there.”

Dean freezes mid-chug, finishes, and begins to question their host. “Just so we’re clear, we’re talking what, early to mid-seventeenth century if I’m hearing you correctly?”

Seems there is a fascinating spot on the floor as Stephanie stares, not meeting either brother’s glares. A small cough from Sam startles her and she whispers the answer.

“1628. The last time he came to see me was during a hunt down in New Orleans. Meeting up with Lexi. You know, we wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t stopped her that night, kept her from reversing every bit of magic the man has cast over himself.”

Dean wipes a hand hard across his face, leaves a white wash of pressure behind. Sam continuously rubs his stomach in soothing patterns, the story upsetting to his system and he finishes up his milk. “I don’t want to make this more uncomfortable than it already is for you, Steph, but you know what we need right?”

They wait patiently for her to gather her thoughts. When she does meet their eyes, her body tenses, unhappy with the decision she’ll make for their sakes. Nevertheless, her voice is proud, strong, a Southern twang as she responds, “I’ll do the scrying. No need to wait longer than necessary.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I should say that this is wonderful. I can't. This chapter did not want to be edited and when I did, I think I purple prosed it to within an inch of it's life. I don't know, I'll say sorry and that the next chapter is behaving. Oh, there's porn. It's...I had issues with Sam not letting me manuever him through it all. Okay, all that doom to say...ta da.

Use of magics, even when one is a witch, doesn’t necessarily guarantee any sort of outcome, no matter if one is evil or good or perhaps, that hazy grey in between.

The younger Mayfair has her wits about her, properly caffeinated, awake and alert. The house is dark bar the kitchen, lit with decorative halogen lights over the sink, as well as the living room. Floor lamps, two faux Tiffany and two with deep-bronzed stands topped with eggshell shades, illuminate the downstairs in soft, hushed tones. The somber mood doesn’t last long as an hour ticks by, the coffee pot empties, and Dean paces the perimeter of the foyer.

Stephanie is by no means a slouch in wielding her own unique powers but David--David’s allusive whereabouts countering her abilities are nothing short of humbling. It becomes awkwardly apparent that her father holds the upper hand in mysticism; that the elder Mayfair witch will show himself when he damn well pleases is embarrassing and quite frankly, it pisses his daughter off. 

Scrying for David’s location proves pointless, the tap water filled in her makeshift medium of a white stoneware bowl proving fruitless as there’s not an ounce of disturbance. It’s not until Stephanie huffs in frustration and stands indignantly, her robe fluttering around her feet in mock irritation, that Sam feels the first bite of his own disappointment.

“Okay then, we have other methods. No results here, so--maybe Bobby might have a lead.” Sam shifts around until his head presses back against the wall. He flips and twirls a butter knife between his fingers, concentrating on the feel of the cold metal, narrowing his focus. The sting of failure pings through his mind but his statement is meant in the purest of reassurances. Fact is, Sam is unsure as to whether he’s comforting himself or all three of them. Truth is, his statement does neither.

Dean’s forte is allowing his mouth to land them in hot water, only this time, Sam is the one who has them cowed, his own ass in the frying pan. He shrinks into himself, cringing away from the withering look Stephanie levels onto him. The witch spins, her socked foot slip-sliding on the smooth tiles as she does and it catches along a table leg. Her glare challenging, daring Sam to carry on with his piteous train of thought. The deep lines of discontent and worry ease away, her cupie doll lips draw into a smile that shows the top row of teeth, and her posture is bone straight. The effect makes her loom larger than her actual size, other-worldly and deadly. 

The past few days haven’t been a cakewalk what with angry spats erupting between two or all three of their group. Arguments that Dean interrupts, after which, he compares Stephanie to a furious stray Chihuahua that Sam once brought back to a rental they’d laid claim to. He’d say both dog and woman had a bark worse than their bite, and with Stephanie, those fights more often than not ended with a good-hearted ribbing. 

This, the sharp, exaggerated inhale-exhale motions of Stephanie’s chest, denotes her absolute fury, and damned if Sam wants that level of pent-up magic and fury anywhere near his or Dean’s proximity. Dean isn’t as closed lipped concerning their host’s temper, and it raises his hackles. The air around them grows damp and chilly, and Sam sits up, taking point.

“All right, I’m just going to take Sam and go somewhere nice and quiet, preferably where you aren’t. Upstairs. You’ll have your t.v., your Lifetime Movie Marathon and your coffee with that Pumpkin creamer frou frou crap you and Sam love so much. No Burning Bed marathons, you, while you get over your temper tantrum or mood swing. Whatever the hell this is. Good luck with that, Steph.”

Dean prefers that everyone present leave the room unscathed, prefers not to have to physically restrain the woman, but he will. It’s a testament to their host’s kind and open nature that Dean isn’t brutally rough with her--that Stephanie is still standing. 

Inside, he’s cursing Sam and Sam’s weird, new in-laws, or whatever one would call the group. Outwardly, both he and Sam hear the small whimpers and steady for a fight as the woman’s head jerks in fits and starts. Coupled with eyes that flash hazy grey, looks that range from amusement to complete horror and back, it’s apparent what Stephanie’s magics have drawn upon.

“Possession,” Sam mouths, not sparing a look to Dean. More than eighty percent certain she’s not gone demonic, they see Stephanie has not only accomplished her goal but also leapt over it with a good deal of terrifying overachieving. 

“Sam, Dean. Have a seat please.” A pleasant enough voice slips past her lips, wisps over Stephanie’s vocal cords, and alters her speech patterns. That is, it’s enough for the seasoned hunters to hear the fluctuations. Neither of them can place her accent as she’s barely spoken but the most notable difference is the utter lack of her New Orleans dialect.

“Yeah. All right, that’s not creepy at all. Look, whoever’s hitched a ride on the Mayfair ship, why don’t we not and say we did and you know, call it a night.” The word night barely makes it past Dean’s lips before the voice emanating from Stephanie grates across the kitchen. 

“Sit down now!” It’s ridiculously loud, each man bringing their hands up quickly to cover their ears.

Dean’s first thought is _wrong_ , his second is _holy shit_ , and he grabs the sleeve of Sam’s robe, pulling him backwards in an attempt to shield. Sam’s first thought is _like hell_ as he rips himself loose, ignoring Dean’s disapproval and pushing him away. Annoyed, irritated with the macho hero shtick thrown his way, Sam latches onto Dean’s bicep. He jerks his brother to the side, catches his eyes, and nods towards the couch.

“Can the protection crap, Dean.”

Dean refuses to look at him, his line of sight more than preoccupied, and fusses, “Now?! You’re pulling out Samantha’s Guide to Feminism now?”

Sam ignores the barb, knowing once business with their new visitor is resolved they’ll have ample opportunity for a lengthy, terse discussion. He might need to hog-tie Dean to the bed to make that a possibility, but it will happen. 

“Living room, Casper.” 

Sam’s ass is sore and his back aches; the pull of newly strained abdominals affect the muscled length of his spine, exhausts him in ways he’s unaccustomed. He wants to sit, and the suggestion is perfect. More important, the living room is where the weapons are, where they need to be. They shuffle walk that way, falling easily into hunt mode to avoid tripping over one another’s socked feet like idiots as soon as it nods Stephanie’s head in response.

“Forget getting handsy with the weapons, boys. Not that either of you feel I’m stupid enough to allow you the slightest opportunity, right? Now, I don’t know if you’d harm your babe’s sweet sister, Sam, but I’m not one for taking chances.” A flick of her eyes sends a set of the knives stashed behind the fireplace tinderbox flying from their sheaths. A flick of her wrist sees that the weapons pool together in the middle of the living room.

“Oh for the love of – you know we know that’s Steph’s gig. Cheap parlor tricks aren’t going to make us piss ourselves.” Dean’s assessment is ballsy, they both know it, and Sam hip checks him before they sink down onto the oversized leather sofa. 

“Think it’s wise to upset the rider, Dean?” Sam’s face is hilariously put out, thin line of lips stretched, but the unsure glint flashing in his eyes cuts Dean to the quick, leaves him wanting to manhandle the look right off his brother’s face.

The guide speaks for Dean, snarky attitude and all. “Let me answer that question for you, Sam, with a solid _no_. I’m here to answer one specific question, and I’ve half a thought to let you both wander blindly. Quite the shoddy display of huntsmanship. Honest to god, I thought I’d have my hands full but you’re both just overgrown, bumbling oafs.” 

The guide contorts its borrowed face into a mocking caricature, and Dean finds himself taken aback with the surge of utter hatred he has towards the spirit. Sam’s grip hasn’t eased, his other hand clenched in a fist, the same intense feeling radiating off him.

While top priority remains to secure David’s location, it’s clear the new events could very well add to Dean’s learning curve and the inner hunter in him jumps at the rare opportunity. He casts a wanton, permissive look, ego be damned, with eyes wide open to Sam. Sam cocks his head for an explanation and Dean takes the scrap of curiosity as enough of a yes to continue. 

“So, a rider. How about explaining why a spirit would choose this.” Dean flails his hands about in Stephanie’s direction, “Let’s paint our nails and gossip on what it’s like to be a witch’s go-to bitch when the only mojo she angled for was scrying, not a full-on Swayze.” As soon as the words exit his mouth it occurs to him that he might harbor a touch more anger for Steph’s current condition than he originally thought. Sam gives a resounding "Christ, Dean," letting go of his brother in favor of scrubbing at his own face. He drops his hands in order to glare hard and sucks in a whistle through his teeth.

Stephanie’s eyes radiate an ethereal glow of contempt, the frosted ice of them seeming to darken as the spirit shapes borrowed lips into a startling smile. Sam bristles, arm hairs standing on end as their shoulders brush, feeling a shiver course through Dean. 

Dean continues. “No, I’m guessing it’s all talk. Nothing but a low-end, bottom of the totem pole, back of the class spirit in the grand scheme of things. Know what? I’m tired and you’re wasting our time.” With that, every ounce of tension leaves Sam’s body as he makes to heave himself off the ridiculously comfortable sofa.

Stephanie’s facial features and the set of her shoulders immediately deflate, bringing to Sam’s mind disturbing images of Crowley’s oft attitude. An m.o. full of bluster until it wasn’t. Sam never wanted any “special” parlor tricks of his own but right now, now that he knows there’s a pinhole in the spirit’s attitude, he’d love to throw a mental image of them standing over the King of Hell’s bones as they had a year ago. Salt and burn. Take it down a notch.

“Oh for god’s sake.” She lets out a hmph and shrugs. “Fine, try to have a little fun. As per usual, hunters are prudish and predictable. Girl can’t catch a break. I mean, I haven’t had a body to stretch out in in over a century. Wannabe witches only deal with stupid demons these days--of course I’d get stuck with the impotent wonder twins.” She pouts, shapes Honey’s face into a lower lip puffed, full-on pout and droops her eyes like a puppy. 

It should be their cue to get on with questions but Dean cracks. He knows he’ll catch hell later and yet, repressed laughter shakes his frame and a few tears pool at the crinkled corner of his eyes. He turns to Sam, “Holy crap dude, if that,” index finger extended towards their possessed landlord, “is what she looks like when she’s moping…this kid of ours is gonna be the death of us. Congrats, Sam.” Dean’s slaps a hand, hard, on Sam’s back, the impact budging Sam forward. “You’re finally going to get a taste of your own medicine.” 

+

Answers fall swiftly from Stephanie’s lips, leaving them with the information they’ll need to find the elder witch. As soon as the questioning stops, there’s a slight blink and a nod, a pout of pure petulance, the guide gone as quickly as she’d come into existence. Stephanie’s body doesn’t slump for more than a mere two seconds before Dean shoots up to grab hold, tightly cocooning the young woman in the soft folds of her fuzzy robe and hefting her limp body off the recliner. 

Sam stands aside, no longer able to shoulder heavy weights without his gut cramping, and watches patiently as his brother cradle-tucks Stephanie firmly against his chest. He’s vibrating with a sudden sense of urgency at the sight - the amount of care Dean has in him, what he gives freely to those who need it so desperately. 

Dean climbs the wooden stairs, planting a small kiss on the crown of her black hair, hiding the action behind a raised shoulder, but it’s no use. Sam spots the move, follows and observes quietly from the far wall in the upstairs hallway as Stephanie is tucked in, robe and all, beneath her flannel duvet. 

Dean softly latches the door as he exits, suddenly caught unaware as there’s a rush of wind behind him. He lets loose an _oomph_ as he’s damn near tackled, pressed firmly into the hall wall, stomach touching extended stomach with Sam. A space of breathlessness, a moment to bitch and complain, understandable, certainly, after having just dealt an impromptu one-on-one with a two hundred year old spirit mandhandling their host like a puppet. Sam’s in his face, breath coming in short pants as if he just ran a marathon, with a stupid grin painted on. In any other circumstance, it would mean Sam’s a few seconds away from calling him out for his less than manly attentions. 

Sam’s hair is unkempt, falls into his eyes, and Dean instantly craves more contact. He reaches up and rearranges the stray strands behind Sam’s ear. The remaining wisps refuse to move, sticking to Sam’s lips and Dean reaches there as well, only this time he doesn’t remove his fingers; content, transfixed on the clean line of clipped nails as he traces along the contours and grooves of Sam’s ridiculously soft lips. Sam’s smile shifts - less amusement, more predatory, a promise of danger and unexplored, unmentionable actions that call into question Dean’s well-being. The opportunity to mull over those ideas flees as Sam mock bites, suctioning the whole of a fingertip into his mouth.

Dean’s heart gives a solid skip, the missed thump and hammer leaves his chest aching and his worries crash through, fear of not being able to handle what he started. They’ve been hovering, locked in an unspoken truce of no extracurricular activity, no further kisses, and a million miles from the physical. Dean’s placed his dick under mandatory probation as an extra incentive to work things out smoothly with Sam. The lack of any stimulation, including jerking off in the shower, in the Impala, in bed--as yes, he is that serious—means he’s hopelessly hard, dick chubbing out too quick. The rush of blood knocks him sideways, has him literally dizzy. 

Thoughts of delusion, that he’s convinced (coerced) his brother of a relationship beyond the emotional, do not sit well. There’s a sudden lurch of horror, that Dean is positive he can’t do this; he’s too wired, needs to run and jerk off and let Sam be—should allow the guy a few yards of space to come down from the rush of the morning's events on his own terms. 

“Sam, damn man, stop. C’mon, quit. We’ll take a step back, clear our heads but that,” and despite his protests, he depresses Sam’s tongue, sends a silent 'fuck' to the heavens as Sam maps out the whorls and indentations by flattening the muscle, flicking then sucking and oh fuck, “I can’t, man. Can’t, and you’re going to kill me with your stupid mouth.” 

Sam doesn’t stop, simply raises his eyes, one eyebrow arched obstinately. The suction eases though, after Dean’s glare of false annoyance is fashioned Sam’s way. It’s easy to see through, Sam content and with curiosity written across his forehead. It’s a popping slurp as Dean’s finger falls from between thin lips, a small thud when Dean’s hand falls like lead against his own chest, wetting the fabric.

Damp skin against his temple as Sam leans in, the lightest rub of his forehead back and forth against Dean’s own. Sam can hear his brother beating himself up, clear as day. Knows in another life, one that seems a millennia past and with another person, he would back off, explore; he’d leisurely wine and dine them. Take the time and not slam them forward. Only, that’s a slow burn kind of love, one he’s not entirely convinced if either of them could survive. 

Sam stills, allows his lips close to the fleshy lobe of Dean’s ear, whispers, “Can’t for me or you? Walk away, then. Not going anywhere, not going to leave you, Dean. You, this. Not hurting me.”

Sam detaches and gives pause, gives himself--both of them--room to run. An option, no questions asked. End it now, only Sam doesn’t know for whom, much less why, anymore. 

Neither take the offer.

Dean’s head thumps back against the door. Eyes squeezed tight, breathing uneven, panic quick and Sam takes Dean’s right hand into his left, guides them. He’s Dean’s eyes, letting the older man experience without interruption. And Dean does, feels what he’s known his entire life in an entirely new language: Sam’s mitts are huge, engulfing them both, pawing against Sam’s tee shirt where the thin cotton fabric, laundered soft, catches at their dry skin. Sam’s overgrown wall of chest, furnace soaking through his clothes, ridges of muscle that leave Dean stunned at the landscape of his brother. 

Sam’s body open for exploration as he guides them down, down past a sudden curvature, the abdominal muscle beneath still hard and yet, pliable in a way Sam hasn’t allowed since puberty. Calloused palms trembling over his as Dean can’t catch the bubble of hysterical laughter at the play of a stretched navel; two sets of fingers skimming and pushing the tee inwards at the indent until traveling on. A small noise of encouragement from Sam, a matching laugh ceasing at the sound of a sharp intake of air, a noise of embarrassment at the seam of Dean’s lips as they navigate the tight stretch of Sam’s flannel waistband. 

Sam’s thumb sideswipes the material, stretches it open, and Dean laughs once at the wave of escaping heat. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t shove away to escape, doesn’t grab Sam by the neck and manhandle him to the floor. He doesn’t, the fear of becoming unhinged warring in his mind, and he wants nothing more than to wrench Sam’s arms behind his back, trap the man in a tangle of his own pants as he rips them down his hips. He fights against the reptilian part of his brain threatening to take over as he imagines Sam struggling, as Sam’s hands begin to guide them against the veined path of hips and groin.

Blunt fingernails dig into Dean’s wrists, strength egging him on to explore lower, and his hands unclench to cup the whole of Sam. Soft dick nestled against a hefty sack, and Dean would worry over Sam being flaccid, only Sam hitches up into his hand and grits out, “Hormones, takes some effort.” Narrow hips stutter-start and Dean works doing what he enjoys having done to him, tamps down on the fear simmering—gently palms and rolls the weighted balls. Tugs and feels the blood drumming on the inside of his wrist, warmth where he’s pressed tight against Sam’s cock as it leisurely fills, lengthens. As much as Dean wants this, it’s equally bizarre, unnerving, and yet he’s never been so crystal clear on how he won’t, can’t, quit until Sam’s a pleading mess. 

Sam grinds forward into the attention, his thighs starting to buckle, head lolling backwards, and he gives a hard mmmph in distress. He locks up as Dean grips him tight at the base, squeezing his shaft hard in a ringed circle of fingers, no precum to ease the way, ruthless squeeze and release and a twist up along the length of silky skin. It won’t get him there but it keeps his dick in the game. He’s utterly blown away at the feel of Dean’s fingers beneath his as they squeeze and twist their way towards the head. 

Dean knocks back, his head bumping against the wall in response to Sam liking the harsh treatment, the results instantaneous with each nasty pull. 

“Oh my god. Knew it. Knew you’d be as fucked up as me, Sam. So goddamned messed up.” He’s whispering, throat closing around the words. 

Lips seal against his neck and Dean gives a sharp cry as Sam surprises him, bites under his jawline to emphasize Dean’s last point. It’s a battle of unraveling, Dean using his free hand to grab Sam’s sack, rolling and yanking down hard. Sam unlatches from Dean’s adam apple in an instant, barking out “Hey!” It’s uncomfortable, but Dean goes on the assumption that the pain is worth it as Sam quits squirming. 

In fact, Sam stays stock still in his current position, taking it and the new feeling of his slit being fingered. There’s a burn of pressure, intense and building, and Sam shakes as the gritty-textured tip of Dean’s finger scrapes the tiny opening’s sides. His slit gives with no warning, fat pad dipping in, hollowing out room. The intrusion leaves Sam hissing between his teeth. The hallway fills with swear words, the sound of Sam’s closed fist popping the wall beside Dean’s ear, and while voyeurism is a kink long ago fought and conquered in Dean’s world, this pushes his limits. 

Sam deserves better. He deserves better than a fumbled jerk-off in a hallway across from barely-known, pseudo family. 

Sam deserves a bed. Displayed, Dean’s mind offers; his mind also offers a painted scenario of Sam systematically owned, decimated under Dean’s care. The words pain and pleasure combine, hit a high note of experience on a forgotten memory. Playing with nameless nobodies, unimportant but for his know how, it all zips past. He’s mildly surprised with himself, spending a millisecond on the kinks he’s indulged, in comparison to the one at present. The one where his kid brother is clumsily tugging at Dean’s pants. It’s all good. Dean has endless reserves of depravity he’ll gladly let fly for Sam. 

“We should maybe carry this into the bedroom, yeah?”

+

There’s a nod, Sam stepping away, and the image before Dean, once his brain focuses, stuns him and leaves him uncomfortably hard. Sam looks debauched: hooded fox eyes, prominent cheek bones lit in a gorgeous shade of red that Dean’s only seen perhaps twice in his life. His mind circles the idea of Sam sporting that color as a goddamned accessory anytime they have more than five minutes alone. Sam blushing is his new goal in life, and he’s determined to make that come to fruition.

They move down the hall, stumbling into their bedroom of beige and cream décor, and Sam pulls Dean forward and spins them, reaches behind himself to latch the door firmly shut. Their small nightstand lamp glows softly, casting a sweet ambiance across the room, and Dean laughs. The absurdity of the situation registers too much as his brother nips and worries at the juncture between neck and shoulder. 

“What?” Sam stops doing that long enough to ask then returns, planting the lightest of kisses over the small red marks he’s no doubt left over Dean’s skin.

Dean palms at the ache between his legs, the arousal sweet edged, tinted with frustration. “Feels like I’m in a chick’s room, working to poppin’ her cherry while the parents are downstairs. You know? That what we’re doing here? Gonna give it up to your big brother, Sammy?” It’s half a joke, choked out. Dean wants, and that’s the flip-side to that, hoping his need doesn’t leech through the veneer.

Sam doesn’t outright laugh. Rather, he angles his mouth, thin line of a smile, against Dean’s cheek. He’s amused, agreeing as he nods an ‘I get it’ in response.

Strong hands on Dean’s waist tighten then push him backwards until the back of his thighs press against the firm support of their mile-high bed. Grainy black and white photos, shots of barns and fields of sunflowers in delicate pewter frames, greet him past Sam’s shoulders. Although it takes a moment to realize that the enormity of Sam, the sheer hulk of him, is no longer blocking the view, Dean snaps to attention, near heart attack as Sam lowers himself to the floor. 

His brother is languid, as if he has all evening to inch down and map out his brother’s frame. It’s insane, Dean thinks, as Sam’s hands lag behind in progress, scratchy feel of his fingertips that toy along the jut of his ribs, butterfly kisses so delicately soft along his belly he wants to jump out of his own skin. On down, smallest wet flick of a tongue through the hairs below his navel, hands grabbing the cotton pajama’s and landing on his ass. Open handed squeezes to hard muscle, the massage ratcheting up his nerves and his dick drools a smear of pre-cum. 

The only sounds are their harsh breaths, neither of them daring to speak a single word. Dean’s filled, thickened. His dick is all encompassing now, no other distractions drawing his attention other than to spread Sam out beneath him.

Lips, Sam’s lips for chrissakes, he thinks, graze over Dean’s crotch, face nuzzling into the slight space where groin meets inner thigh and Sam inhales. Dean is overwhelmed, drunk on the idea of how filthy the action is. He’s getting off on Sam sniffing him and suddenly he latches onto the mop of hair right there, shoves his crotch forward. Sam takes the abrupt jam forward, teeth grazing across the bulged fabric. 

The delayed reaction is violent, Sam moving in a burst of speed, pushing his brother back from his face as he grabs hold of Dean’s waistbands and pulls. The pajamas don’t travel far, bunching up around Dean’s thighs and earning a grunt of disapproval, the fabric pissing Sam off. Dean’s not even finished yanking his tee-shirt off, arms stuck in the sleeves above his head, when Sam shoves him back. He rises from the floor just as Dean’s ass hits the mattress. 

Sam can’t name the feeling, blinded by an urge he hasn’t felt in months--his nerves thrum in anticipation and without hesitation, he towers over Dean. Sam eyes him under a strand of stray hair. The sly smirk falls off his face, too power hungry off the deliciously surprised look Dean sports. He’s always enjoyed the anticipation, the lightening quick sizing up his lovers have given when they take in his size. Width and height, dick and body. It crawls under his skin, has Sam itching to get know the many ways he can make Dean fidget and yelp in surprise.

Sam jerks his head in a quick up-nod and nearly jacks his dick when Dean unquestioningly follows the command smoothly, lying back on the bed. It’s a second gone by, no more, and he jumps into action, slides his hands under Dean’s arms and finger crawls a path up the expanse of back. Dean is tense, might still be a tad shell-shocked; starting from the top of rounded shoulders all the way to the delicious dip in the small of his back, Sam rakes blunt fingernails down the goose-pebbled skin. Dean bursts loose a hiss of pain, toes curling. There are long angry stripes welting up on the miles of freckled, pale skin that make Sam grin victorious against his brother’s neck.

“I need you to move up the bed, Dean. Okay?”

Their cream-colored duvet wrinkles under his ass as he scoots back, his back coming to rest against several king-sized pillows propped up and lining the sleigh bed’s headboard. Sam kneels down by Dean’s feet, his head lowered as he gently strokes with an open palm up Dean’s legs. It’s not enough, Dean thinks, and worries he’ll die of blue balls until the image before him finally clicks in place as to what Sam’s posturing concerns. Permission. The lightest, baby step of submission Sam’s offering up and Dean’s no clue if this is Sam’s subconscious in play or he’s fully aware. Regardless, Dean himself needs permission to move forward.

“Ready for this, Sam?” Given how his voice comes out a lot less Eastwood than he was gunning, Dean’s honestly surprised Sam doesn’t call him on it. So he waits, clenches down on the wellspring ideas of one way ticket to hell and been there, done that. As far as Dean’s concerned, there’s no stopping until the bed’s declared a national emergency. Call FEMA because it’s fight or fuck. Their only options, Dean thinks, given this Flowers of the Attic bullshit rhythm that’s been their entire lives.

After a small pause, there’s a slight dip of long-ish brown hair and Sam stills his hand. 

Dean will later (much, much later) recall it as having a blindfold, one he’s worn his entire life, ripped away. The relief of Sam’s consent floods his psyche immediately with take and now. Everything around him zeros in, tunnel vision. Sam here. Sam hovering above his legs. It closes a circuit, fuse hardwired to his cock, and loosens a filter that was pathetically jakey already.

“Stand up straight. Strip. Wanna see you.” 

Sam shivers as he complies, each move slow and deliberate in order to show off the play of veined musculature across his arms as he reaches to lift off his tee. He’s quiet, head still lowered when his hands slip beneath the waistband of both his night pants and boxer briefs. Dean’s sharp intake of breath at the sight of him, rock solid length springing free to bob once, twice before curving out and up, makes for a pause in his movements. It’s a brief hesitation but he keeps stoic, all traces of amusement locked tight.

Dean’s fingers itch to touch, to fist Sam’s length and work him over. Instead, he twists a patch of comforter in an attempt to regain control. Set right, he brings his legs up and crooks them at the knee, feet flat on the bed, then spreads wide so that his junk is on display. The mild embarrassment of is nothing but a fleeting, useless sensory hang-up. Okay, Dean considers, more than worth the kiss of cold air across his hole for the opportunity to see red flood Sam’s cheeks. 

“You’re perfect. You have no idea, man. Fucking over-achiever, Sammy, always make me proud. Winchester dick, for sure. Never stopped to appreciate what you were jerkin’ all those times. Pit stops, motels...” 

Sam can’t claim the same. He’s been sneaking peeks at what Dean is packing his entire life. Situations laced with lack of privacy, watching and hearing the rustles and slaps of skin as Dean got his while they shared the same space. 

Dean’s mouth—it always lands them in hot water. His words fill the silence now, utter filth that he can’t seem to control, and Sam stops his roving stares and glares at his brother. Fingers digging into the meat of his thighs to keep from attacking, mouth set in a harsh scowl turning at the corners. Predatory slant to his eyes that Dean is unable to see as Sam faces the bed, head down. 

“…wanna see ‘em, Sammy. Balls like that, low and heavy, full. Jesus fucking christ, I can’t,” and Dean stops talking, gets an eyeful. Breathes out the flutter of nerves ratcheting through his system. Ten seconds, dead silence but for the sound of the bedroom clock ticking. “Enough,” Dean startles himself, his commanding tone starting in on Sam, “I want you reclined, arms behind you, hands flat on the bed. No touching. I want you to look at me. I want you,” and Dean’s heart trips, voice a rich echo through the room, “I want you to tell me what you see.” His stomach flips at his own instructions, body flushed down to his curled toes from the rush.

Sam’s first response is exact, first sitting down at the foot of the bed, reclining so that he leans back far enough to need his hands flat behind himself. His legs spread shoulder width apart with his head still bent. It’s difficult not to touch himself. He enjoys how sensitive his nipples are, enjoys having them rolled and nipped until blues and reds bruise the delicate surrounding skin. It’s maddening how he wants to run his hands down and across the remaining indents of sculpted abs, coming to rest on the small swell of his baby bump. Lay a trail right down the middle of the smooth swell and fist his dick, pushing out pre-cum with a pinch of his forefinger and thumb, use it as slick. Maybe show off and suck the tackiness from his fingers. It’s a head game, deprivation stinging his senses and Sam fucking loves it. His dick jumps, tiny bob up and down at the thought of Dean owning him.

“Sam, don’t make me tell you again. Look up. Tell me what you see or we’ll be discussing repercussions.” Dean’s own turmoil battles inside, unsure whether he’d rather Sam obey or disregard. Punishment, his mind offers. He’s near ripping holes in the covers as his prick gives its own hefty pulse at the warring ideas. 

Sam obeys, turns his face up at the reprimand, throat constricting in acknowledgement of the damage Dean can inflict, the power and finesse he can unleash. He looks stunned, as if he wasn’t expecting the lewd figure before him. His big brother opened wide, light sheen of sweat glistening from his neck down to his taint. “Holy shit,” slips unbidden, an afterthought, and he allows the words to melt into oblivion. 

“Dean…” His thighs quiver under his fingertips, or perhaps, he thinks, that his hands are trembling. He wants to praise the thick jet of cock that curves and lies flat against Dean’s belly, pinkish tone of it pale against light brown pubes trimmed neat. Sam’s known at least this, that Dean may be a slob but his junk has always received the royal treatment. His eyes travel up, watching a drop of pre-cum pool in a glistening mess in Dean’s navel; up, past Dean’s belly, a little soft from the hooch and junk food--fluff amidst the remnants of defined abs; up, past a solid chest built for the gods and onto his mouth, puffed lips sculpted by one. 

Sam wills his voice to cooperate, tears the words out as they’re molasses thick. “I see my big brother spread out like a present, just for me. You say I’m perfect,” and Sam huffs in amazement, blinking sweat out of his eyes, “You. You’ve no idea do you?”

Dean struggles, does his best not to close his legs; he wills away a secondary burst of embarrassment but can’t keep the pale blush from painting his torso. 

“You’re blushing but there’s nowhere to hide. It’s fucking delicious streaking across your abs, lines of separation I can dip my fingers in. Want. I want to lick the blush right down to where it stops. Get between your thighs, breathe you in, rub my face in between and inhale.” Sam’s losing it, the words tumble, and he can envision every move described, shakes with a need he can’t place. 

Dean takes it. Eyes wide, breath a panting thing. Sam continues, “Heavy sac. Guess we look alike in one aspect, yeah? Loose, separate, a handful. Can’t wait to get you standing above me, let me deepthroat you while you rest your sac on my chin. Want you to let me taste, Dean. Pop one after the other between my lips, roll across my tongue, suck even when the seam’s gathered ‘em up tight against your body…jesus.”

Sam stops, every square inch of his body on fire, demands attention and he knows—prays Dean knows the game. 

Dean didn’t start what they’re doing as a test. He’s trying his damndest to convey to Sam that he’ll get them where they need to go. There’s a command, unspoken, and all Sam needs do is let go, hand it over. 

Sam actually whimpers, the sound stark in the hushed quiet, and Dean’s eyes narrow. Targeting. Fixating. It makes Sam jumpy, boiling under his skin, out of control. He thinks a cock ring and the cage to boot, if he’s right about where this scene is headed in the future, might need to be employed to keep all his pieces together.

“Doing so good Sam. So fuckin’ smart, catching on quick. I don’t, this isn’t like…” and Dean quiets, the words ‘female’ and ‘partner’ not appropriate. It has to be enough, to use his own body as an example. “Think you can keep it up for me? Not budge while I’ll just stroke myself right--here,” and Dean cups his balls with one hand, finally lets loose the bedsheets with the other to rub along his taint, sob slipping free at the touch.

The broken sound sets Sam in the here and now, need warring with behavior, and he steadies his breathing, focuses on a skewed piece of curtain across the room as a deterrent. He holds back, barely, from breaking the rules and jumping his brother. A mere foot away from licking, anywhere, doesn’t matter, just—run his tongue over the endless stretch of body.

“Nooo. I mean, yeah, yeah I can try, Dean. I--your hole is fluttering. Feel it? ‘Cause I can see it, dude. Begging for me to circle tiny pink pucker with my tongue…fuck, ever had a girl do that for you? Bet not, maybe one of your girls used a slim finger.” And it kills him, Dean all at once motionless, nose flaring and waiting for Sam to flay him open. “Nothing about me is slim, petite, Dean. My fingers, everything about me big enough to make you feel it for days. I can make it sweet. Make that tiny virgin hole ache. Use the wide of my tongue, spit slick your rim until you’re wet as girl. Want to guess what’ll happen next, Dean?” 

Dean shakes his head, legs widening. Yes. No. Hanging on for life as Sam’s words go on—nasty filth, foul promises, reaching in and twisting just so. “I’ll watch it clench on air, get you begging; have you give up those pretty little moans like you owe me when I finally open you on the point of my tongue. Have you begging like one of your little bar whores when I hit that sweet spot. Gonna let me, Dean? Let me work my fingers in. Pull my tongue out, stretch to see your hole gape, let you feed me your dick while I work the spot only your baby brother is allowed to touch.” 

Dean has honestly been holding on by a thread, hoping like hell for a longer scene shot. That’s over, shot to shit. Sam’s own prick is darkened, red and purple tones paint along the shaft, seam of his balls drawing them tight, ready to bust. Dean takes one more controlled breath, nothing less than a roller coaster from this point forward, and begins steadily, loosely, stroking his dick, sheer determination the only thing staving off threatening waves of an orgasm.

He stutter starts, pausing between gritty-voiced demands. “Sammy, I want you—to get up. Go to the second dresser drawer. Under the pile of your Hanes. Get the lube out. Now.” The mood alters on the blatant undercurrent of teasing; Sam’s brows dip, causing the whorl of muscle on his forehead to deepen. He’s pouting. He’s completely busted and Dean beams. Calling Sam out will never get old, not even when they’re minutes away from fucking each other through the mattress.

Sam doesn’t speak, merely wipes his face blank as he stands to find the hidden lube, fighting back his automatic responses--a lifetime’s worth of jabs and spars bubbling up, shoved down. 

“Sammy, turn around.” It’s an order, one that elicits a yes sir and immediate action. The heat radiating off Sam’s hand seeps through the bottle of lube, warms it as Dean looks on, pleased. “Just so you know, hiding that – hell, hiding anything from me ever again—you’ll wind up over my knee. Just so we’re on the same page. I will tear your ass up, spank it so red-hot you won’t sit right for a fucking week. Understood?”

Sam should respond but his mind has fizzled out. Sparks of something he’s not accustomed leave him stupid, mouth slightly parted. The threat, the concern, has his mind settling lazily, enveloped in a soft fog. 

“K-Y on the nightstand, Sam. Grab the shirts off the floor and then, then I want your gigantic self up here and sit between my legs.” 

Sam strides to the bed, places the tube of gel lube beside the lamp and waits for Dean’s go ahead. While Dean sits up to pull the sheets down, flings them back as well as the comforter, Sam hands him the t-shirts and Dean spreads them out underneath his ass. He sits and spreads wide again, face cutting to Sam as he nods. Sam’s legs are up off the floor immediately; crawling on hands and knees the short length of the mattress to between Dean’s bent legs. He stops, face to face with a very lickable patch of skin. 

“Put your face right here, stay,” Dean pats his inner thigh closest to where his shaft lies curved. “Want you on your side, need you close. Think I’m going to pet you tonight, full on access to your face while you open yourself up for me like a good boy.”

Dean reaches out to Sam’s face, his arms, physically guiding him down onto his right side so that one arm tucks under Dean’s bent right thigh. Sam’s skin buzzes, craves touch and he uses Dean’s right side-expanse of ass and waist as a resting point for his hand. It’s surprisingly comfortable, and he rests his head where Dean pats, in the vee of Dean’s left hip and groin. His neck is cradled for stability. It’s an overload as Dean smells amazingly masculine—a mixture of sweat and pre-cum, tiny glistening drops at the tip of Dean’s cock, and then the slight dark and bitter smell below. Sam’s breathing turns up a notch – giving in to the sensations as Dean cards his hands across Sam’s scalp, a deep massage beneath all the hair turning into feather light touches as fingers make way across his temples.

“Sammy, look at you, can’t…s’where you belong, man. Should’ve gotten over myself ages ago with this because this—this is you right at home.” Dean accentuates his words by gripping his length and tapping Sam’s face, pure marking, his territory. His. Sam’s body is his own but Dean now has certain proprietary rights. Dean’s drunk with ideas: of possessing the man he’s held near since birth, the kid he raised to be an excellent soldier, the possessed man he fought and died for, and the baby brother who died for the world in return. 

Yeah, Dean thinks, he’s happy to crack apart for this chance. He fists himself, lets the bulk weight of his dick drop once, twice. Silences the urge to woop in victory over the muted red marks left behind. Still not enough, Dean squeezes up the shaft as he holds it over the sculpted face and pinches the head, dribbling out another tiny bead of pre-cum. He watches as it falls, lands on Sam’s lips. X marks the spot.

“Lick it off, Sam. Tell me.”

Sam’s tongue darts out, tip tasting the clear fluid Dean’s marked him with. “Salty, sticky, Dean.”

“mhmm, I need you to prop your left leg up, curl up on your side and bend that leg the best you can. You’re going to need the space to finger yourself open for me while I jerk off, mark up your features some more. Think you can bend that way or does the bump get in the way?”

Sam nods a no against the juncture of V between Dean’s thighs; he’s kept up with exercising for hunting as it feels good, gets his body singing and strengthens his back and abdominal muscles so that when he does balloon out, it’ll be slightly tolerable. His right leg slides along the mattress, bending his knee and tucking it close. His left he raises, plants his foot on the bed over where his right lies; curls in on himself, reaching down experimentally to see if he’ll be able to even reach that far. His fingers stretch, putting on a show for Dean as he rubs against the small furl of muscle.

Dean grabs the lube with his free hand, other lazily rubbing fingertips up and down his shaft. “Give me your hand.” A dollop of gel squirts onto Sam’s extended fingers. “Tell me when you need more. You don’t like friction and I don’t wanna hurt you. No martydom allowed Sam. Got it?”

Sam’s already chasing down the crease of his cheeks, rolling his hips foward and feeling a healthy stretch all along his front. He swirls his finger, spreads the lube around the rim, playing and flicking until it’s too good. His pucker is so sensitive he cries out, the first fingertip pushing past the insanely tight ring of muscle. 

Dean grits his teeth at the noise, slaps his dick on Sam’s cheek once more and brings his own lubed fingers down to his hole. He lets go his prick to cup and raise his sac so that Sam sees everything, every flutter his hole makes, the glisten of lube off the pink muscle. Sam sinks knuckle deep past his own, the sight of Dean wincing at the initial burn of opening himself up insanely hot. 

By the time he’s stretched, Sam’s so turned on and around and hard that he’s going to beg. Watching Dean ride two fingers, shallow thrusts that Sam knows must burn, it gets him talking. It’s a mumbled chaos of “Please, Dean,” and a last bit effort, “bout to fuck my fist.”

Dean’s merciful, slips his fingers free and wipes clean on the shirt beneath him, gripping Sam’s chin. “Get up, want you to ride me. Begging like that, don’t even need to. Don’t wanna hurt you or put pressure on your stomach…up.” Sam rolls back, maneuvers to sit back on his haunches, wiping his fingers off on his ass, slick cooling off in the bedroom’s air. Dean lowers his legs and fixes a pillow under himself for height but his gaze never wavers from Sam’s face, hazel eyes staring back as Sam climbs into his lap. 

Sam grips the top of the headboard, straddling Dean with his knees bent back, feet resting tucked up tight against Dean’s thighs. Dean can’t move with the sheer amount of Sam on top of him and he’s vibrating, his body one long string pulled tight to the extreme and he nods. 

“You control this, understand? I follow your lead.”

Sam can’t speak, vocals chords locked up with anticipation and he’s reaching behind himself to fist Dean’s length, runs the head through his sticky crease until the blunt tip rests against his hole. Dean’s lips part, tongue flicking out as his cock rests against the tight rim, wet and barely giving. 

Sam never drops his gaze, his chest, back and arms wet with moisture as he lowers himself slowly, Dean’s prick catching with a sharp burn and then popping past the first ring. Dean’s not the widest at the bulbous head--his shaft thickens in width down the length and Sam knows his brother’s length is nothing to scoff at. They both grunt as Sam slides down a few more inches, Sam trying to relax into the full intrusion. It’s all he can manage to hold his gaze steady. His head drops back as Dean lifts up, takes in the remaining inches in a second flat. 

“Son of a bitch. Seriously have to give me a minute, Dean.”

Dean’s screwed his eyes shut, hands immediately latching onto Sam’s puffy nipples. The bed creaks as he rocks forward, and he’s hoping the bed can hold up to what he’s in store for Sam. Or vice-versa as Sam looks like he’s about to eat Dean alive.

Sam chokes out as he makes an experimental lift an inch or two and drops back down quickly. He doesn’t angle for his prostate right away, wants to last more than four lifts before he busts a nut all over himself and Dean. Raising his head again and looking at Dean, he thinks his brother might be ready to do just the same.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, holy hell, Sammy. Feels so good, tight…it’s nothing like pussy. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

And that’s Sam’s temporary reprieve from shooting his load too quick, the words earning a bark of laughter and his whole body shakes with amusement; earning a loud moan from both men. Sam wipes the laughter clear as he lifts himself higher this time and falling into Dean’s lap, building friction. 

The pinch of nipples is a start, works with slamming down in the position he needs to get Dean aligned like he needs. The first rub sends white light blazing behind his eyes and he keens, biceps shaking. It spurs him on as he pistons himself in a steady rhythm, leaning in to kiss and lave along Dean’s bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth.

“Jerk me off, Dean. Need it, c’mon, c’mon, baby.” He mouths the words, lips a hair’s width apart and Dean sucks up the plea, pries his hand between them to where Sam’s dick is trapped. He’s not but a few lifts away from exploding inside his brother and the thought has him whimper, so turned on and hot and involved he strokes the length involuntarily. His brain barely registers what he’s doing, twisting on the upstroke, vein underneath Sam’s cockhead too fascinating to not touch and manipulate. 

One last stroke. Sam rocks up on a shout, Dean following and grinds so that Dean’s prick is rubbing him off on his prostate and Sam’s cumming so hard his eyes tear up. An actual cry rips from his throat, corded neck straining, and he’s shooting thick and white across Dean’s chest. 

Sam continues grinding, circling with his hips and the rub is far too intense and tight. The spasms of inner muscles are so wild, Dean’s own orgasm blindsides him. Dean doesn’t cry out, can’t, as he’s shooting his load inside of Sam and choking on air, throat closing off and teeth ground so tight his jaw will be tender for days. While Sam’s cock still dribbles a hot mess between them, Dean can feel his load deep in Sam, slick and hot. Where it ought to be, he thinks.

Sam slumps forward, an exhausted mass of pure masculinity and for a brief span of time, it’s the strangest sensation Dean has ever felt. Sam smells of sweat and sex, combines with the familiarity of his kid brother. There’s the rounded bump of baby pressed against him, a protective surge welling up and his softening dick makes a small jump, still tucked inside Sam. 

Sam lifts, brings a leg over and carefully removes himself, soft dick leaving him and he hisses as it slides free. A tiny bit of Dean’s load spills out and if Dean were eighteen again he’d want this Sam on his hands and knees, pounding into him. It’s that incredibly hot and Dean has to wrench his eyes away as Sam uses one of the shirts on the bed to wipe himself down.

“Shower. Morning. M‘kay?” Sam’s body hits the mattress hard, turning his back to his brother as he does a standard issue, pre-teen fetal curl. Dean barely catches it, the whispered “love you,” but there it is, hanging in the open. Sam’s not even fully situated and his breathing evens, sleep overtaking him. 

Dean watches him settle, wiping his crotch with another t-shirt, then tosses it into a corner of the room with a perfect arc. He’s exhausted, yawn and a scratch of his balls as he slips in behind Sam. The pillow where he was sitting, lube and things he won’t mention or think about is everywhere—it all needs to be salted and burned. He whips it off the bed, wincing at the thud as it hits something on their dresser. He crowds in close, not cuddling, a blissful haze of exhaustion blanketing him. If his brain goes caveman while casting a leg over his kid brother, that’s between him and the thanks he just gave.

“You too, Sammy.”


	13. Chapter 13

Quiet stains the time, driving to the mapped destination. One hour googled, actual time forty minutes, time enough to suck down snack wraps and to-go hot beverages. The smell of bacon sits in the air, and Dean has the Impala’s pedal pressed to the floorboard. There is a plan. Sam keeps changing the timeline details, all his suggestions involving his foot implanted firmly into David’s ass. The fact that Sam has included, in varying points of the plan, graphed it on power point even, all the ways to send the bastard straight to hell, is duly noted. While understandable, amusing if the anger didn’t already leave him murderous, Dean wants the witch topside. 

Not that it matters (it doesn’t), his only allegiance is to his brother, but he’s been placed under Stephanie’s strict orders to keep themselves in check and to bring David to her home - alive. He’ll do what he can, try to uphold a jakey promise made over a bowl of baked ziti. The spirit guide had made it clear that she should go with, but she was in no shape to reheat dinner, much less help on a hunt. The true score is simple: Stephanie would like a word with her father. That, but really it's for Sam, that he deserves the truth and perhaps the witch’s balls in a jar.

The backyard during the dinner conversation must have been exceptionally interesting, as Sam had refused to make eye contact. He had stared and shifted his weight, leant casually against the countertop and kept his face neutral. He wears the same expression now, a complete lack of interest in anything but the vomit-proof snack that Stephanie had packed him: nibble-sized bites of wheat bread cubes offering occasional crunching breaks cutting through the silence. Dean lets it be, the lie in the visual. 

+

The house is a house. A beautiful American foursquare two-story--where a witch lives. There is a plan. No need to discuss the particulars, walking shoulder to shoulder on up the driveway past the assorted birches and one giant blue spruce. No need to hide their entrance; David didn’t exactly lead them with breadcrumbs. The duffle Sam shoulders contains blessed rope soaked in a stew of basil and anise as well as amulets and other hoodoo trinkets. If David is uncooperative, none of it will matter. Two hundred years and counting is a long time to build immunity against a variety of spaghetti sauce ingredients. 

As for a fight, Dean thinks the guy’s an asshole, not a moron. He was, after all, off the grid until he saw fit to man up. Regardless of how smooth their visit is going to go down, Dean’s own duffle contains a lethal mix of witch-be-gone courtesy of Dr. Asben. The same spell and nasty bag of bones and ash she’d been stopped from using once before. It’s an emergency contingency plan that Dean had carefully managed to avoid discussing with their host during the ziti sit-down.

It’s late in the year so there’s an absence of certain plants, greenery the brothers recognize as markers, but the pots are there, filled with dirt and decorative pebbles and no doubt lined with runes. The pots surround the front exterior, and Sam spots what are probably summer herb gardens outlining the left and right corners of the house. He clears his throat, nodding to a seemingly innocuous birch handled broom leaning against the interior corner of the front porch. Dean’s nose scrunches when he looks, visibly uncomfortable, and he pounds a warning knock on the front door. They share a knowing glance, a tilt of the head from them both as lights in the back of the house begin to snap on. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They don’t expect there to be a problem. So far, David’s actions aren’t sketchy; hell, they can hear him walking through the house towards the front door, steady steps as if he’s okay with them being here. No one is shocked or flabbergasted or any of the menial things that can pop up on a hunt. The door opens, and for a split second, both brothers catch a glint of panic flit across the man’s features. Just as quick, it’s gone, and David casually nods, giving them a lewd once over. Cool as a cucumber. It’s odd, the leer, but he’s not muttering latin, and they have a plan. They have a plan: to acquire their target, bring him back in one piece, and if necessary, restrained. All killing aside, ten minutes—tops. 

+

One minute in, their plan is shot to hell. 

\+ 

Distinct sounds bring him around: glass shards crunch and shatter under quickened boot-steps, the noise accompanied with the squelch of rubber soles sliding in spilt liquid. Peeling one eye open, Sam tries to focus on which direction he should be concerned. He’s currently plastered against a pantry door, forcefully shoved, and his head is stinging. He cracked his head on impact, splintered wood out the right side of his vision as evidence. He’s relieved not to feel the familiar slick drip of blood course down the back of his scalp, thankful for the absence of back and abdominal pain. His hand falls to his belly, hopeful that the worst will be an ugly knot on the back of his head and an equally large bruise to his ego. Only a few seconds into rousing fully, the images and sounds of violence swimming in his forefront combine with the churn of discomfort in his stomach. 

It’s important he get up and get moving, a clear message on replay in the back of his mind. The debris and liquid on the kitchen floor make it difficult to find his footing. Vision clearing from behind a cloud of swirls, he lays his palms flat on the wooden surface of the cabinet. Bad situation, bad timing, nasty hit to the head, and Dean’s voice is suddenly there: it ricochets around him, a spiked mass of fury, and it’s clear that his brother’s in trouble.

Not bothering to take stock of his energy, his system pumped full with adrenaline, Sam pushes off the pantry. He doesn’t make a sound, but there’s too much momentum in his exertion, causing him to hurl forward towards the two men fighting. They’re locked in a stalemate against the counter opposite him. His efforts to pull them apart are all in vain as he’s called out, his advance met with a set of furious growls. 

A finger points in his direction, true and straight, and there’s an odd moment of insanity, realizing he’s just been scolded as if he were a child. Nevertheless, it works. Damn it all to hell if Dean’s finger doesn’t stop him from advancing, and he feels like a complete moron.

“Jesus fucking Christ, thank god you’re okay, Sam. Just--stay.” It’s a roughshod show of relief, Dean’s words laced in heavy emotion.

Sam is about to speak, reconsiders. The dressing-down he’s about to lay on thick gives to a flash of memory. Of being shoved across the kitchen, kept clear of the fight. Lo and behold, that was all his brother. Scolding aside, he’s quieted again as David makes a valiant effort to speak. “Such language, Dean. It’s amazing you’ve accomplished anything in your life what with all the Neanderthal posturing.”

“I’d think I’d be more inclined to watch my mouth if I were in your position.” The biting snap is out of Sam’s mouth before Dean can intervene. Sam’s face is lit, manic, eyes dancing with hints of anger that promise to rip into the man. David, Sam surmises, has no ground to call his brother out. None.

Dean forgoes chastising, maintaining the death grip he has on David while he keeps his head turned towards Sam. Sam notes that Dean’s sporting an out-of-place smile considering the scene. It’s a smile made of sheer relief, so blinding the man’s cheeks must ache. 

Then Dean shifts his lower half and promptly knees David square in the balls. Sharp shot right to the crotch. Sam owes David a good old-fashioned beat down, and his face must show his dismay; Dean’s smile fades but he holds David’s sagging body upright by pinning him against the kitchen countertop.  
“Damn, here. Sorry.” Dean’s legs untwine from between David’s, jeans catching on the elder’s khakis. Slipping sideways on glass and puddles of beer, he manages to right himself and maneuvers the witch for Sam to have a go. 

It quite possibly ranks among the top nice things Dean’s done for him; raising him, feeding him, all-around support system, and top billing to kick the shit out of captured monsters on a stick. Sam shakes his head, rolling his eyes at himself.

Dean jerks his head, elbow and hand still occupied in cutting off David’s air supply. “About earlier and the cabinet and the pushing: he came around the corner, your back was turned, and I can’t let him hurt you again, Sam. You’re okay, though? No pain or problems, um, there or anything?” 

The question is so sincere, so ridiculous all things considered, Sam has to turn his head to hide the smirk cutting across his face, dimples in effect, as he thumbs his temples. Standing there, looking at his brother handing over the man they’d spent a good deal of time tracking, Sam is more than mortified to realize he’s madly, stupidly, head over heels. So there’s that, and then there’s the snag of thoughts going in an opposite direction. The annoying question of why David being hurt seems so odd. Sam palms the sides of his jeans; he’s grimy, disgusted that he smells like a brewery and the answer is right there on the tip of his tongue.

It’s odd because David hurting means he’s allowing it. The witch--an incredibly resourceful, powerful, and centuries-old one--has allowed himself to be punched, repeatedly, then tossed around like a rag doll. He put up a fight, sure, as can be attested by the mess in the kitchen and their own dishevel. Now, though? Now he’s being submissive, allowing Dean to pin him. What’s more are the growls. Cold water slap of realization that that wasn’t David growling at Dean when Sam came at them. That was David growling at Sam to maintain his distance. Protection. Protecting Sam from getting involved in a brawl but it’s more than that. It makes no sense, and Sam has no clue as to the game the elder is playing.

Dean watches, worries as Sam’s face morphs into a variety of emotions. He’s suddenly more than certain he’ll not like the end result. 

“Dean. Let go of him and back up, now.” And of all the asinine things to come up, Dean’s amazed at how well they understand each other, given that Sam’s speaking through clenched teeth.

Dean scoffs, worried and rethinking the situation as Sam could injure himself if he hands the witch over. “I can handle this Cujo, seriously, no worries.”

Speaking through clenched teeth again, something about, “yes, lots of worries,” isn’t any more of a deterrent, and Dean focuses on the task at hand. He pats the swollen, bruised, cinnamon toned cheek of the man in front of him, a shred of clarity zinging through his system as he realizes that this cheek has been around since the seventeenth century. Bending forward, he’s prepared to have a small chat with Mr. David Mayfair, of Spain and Donnelaith. “What do ya say to a nice long chat about how certain irresponsible witches with dicks need to learn some manners.” 

The witch groans, good eye opening to reveal a dark chocolate hue, and tilts his body into Dean so that their hips touch. Enough intimate contact that Dean’s hands twitch in the cotton fabric of David’s black shirt at exactly the same moment the man’s cologne hits him--square in the groin. The elder Mayfair, it would seem, isn’t as passive as he’s so far postured.

The fragrance is unlike anything that Dean has ever smelled. Like bottled sex, without feminine keynotes. David’s breathing is rushed, the kitchen’s temperature rising in an instant, and Dean’s clothes are suddenly too tight, too cumbersome. Collecting his wits and every intimate rogue body part that’s involuntarily going to throw him under the bus, Dean tries to speak. Tries, fails, and all while attempting to ignore the puffed up steam train of a brother standing right behind him.

The scent attacks his sinuses, sits heavy in his lungs, Dean’s own hormones racing towards a finish line he has no desire to cross. No matter. As far as his body is concerned, between Sam’s chest pinning him, puffed out pregnant stomach pressing into the small of his back, and the thick haze of sex, it’s go time. “What the…what the hell did you do? Sam, back up!” 

Only Sam isn’t listening as whatever _it_ is, it’s slowly beginning to have the same affect on his little brother. Gut instinct tells him he needs to knock David out, terminate the source, but Dean can’t fight through the artificial arousal building in his mind. The throat beneath his hand constricts, and David squares him with a look. Dean notes with no satisfaction that the bastard looks miserable. Letting up on his vice grip of a hold, he wants to hear what the witch has to say.

“It’s a reaction to violence. Not a fighter and I…it’s a spell for self-defense. They killed everyone I loved, and this is my defense, one that’s not failed me yet. And here you are, si? Your intent…” he cuts off, swallows roughly against the impasse of Dean’s fist and tries to pull in what little air he can. “¿Por qué no hiciste lo que te pedí...Why? Why couldn’t you have followed simple instructions and brought Stephanie?” His speech is clipped, laced with panic.

“You expected us to follow Casper’s orders?” Sam steps around Dean, careful not to dislodge his brother’s hold. Moving in as close as he’s able, ignoring the threat of danger on both men’s faces, Sam cuts off any opposition, angrily spitting out his own questions. “Would you enjoy hearing how sick hosting your one trick pony made your daughter, David? How your little hijacking stunt left her so exhausted, she was shaking. How she can’t eat, the food and the migraines making her vomit. Or is this your norm for family treatment? The flippant disregard you show complete strangers, me included you son of a bitch, sure as hell makes sense now.” Sam presses into them both, shoulder to waist, muscles rigid with fury.

“Sam, I need you to get away from this. From us. Blood pressure.” A heavy napkin holder is knocked off the counter as Dean shoves everyone to the side. “Sam! Back off!”

David screws his mouth into a grimace as he’s slammed into the edge of the oven, the hard line of Dean’s dick following, pressing into his hip. Sam has a bruising grip on Dean’s waist, attempting to move him aside and get his punches in, unsuccessful. David’s legs wobble as he uses Dean as leverage to right himself. The supporting move presses him harder into Dean’s lower body, and he groans as if he’s in pain, his neck on display and his eyes suddenly diverted to show submission. 

Sam’s stomach flips at the reaction, the high from being furious and the residual adrenaline clouding his judgment. His eyes close on instinct as the first onslaught of the spell washes over him, shoving away from the witch and grabbing hold of Dean’s jacket. Dean stills, and he looks more than a tad bewildered. The brothers brace themselves, horrified, as the gravity of the situation hits them.

Arousal--fucking after a hunt or a brawl in a bar, it’s essentially violence spurring on sex, consensually. Dean gets how a situation and body chemistry can make a person behave in crazy, outlandish ways. This, this is a whole other level of disturbing. The level of hoodoo David is rocking in order to slice through the blessings and wards that Stephanie imparted on them before they left, Christ, the herbs and the ceremony of their dinner to even step foot near this house—it’s astronomical. The duffle bag full of rope and hex bags, all its contents are going to be fruitless, it’s not even a question, and for the first time since the fighting began, Dean is considering the need for Asben’s recipe. 

A moot point, regardless, as the pheromones rev his system, bathe his vision in actual hues of blues and greens. A living room clock chimes, and Sam growls. Dean situates so that he may rest his chin over his shoulder, cut his eyes over to the rustic stone kitchen sink. Sam rests against it with his hands on the outer lip, head down and muttering latin to no avail.

He mumbles his own words, chicken scratch, as the pit of his stomach tosses. “Tell me to move, Sam. Changed my mind. Get over here and throw me off of this guy, or else…or else tonight’s going to be a wild world of hurt.”

“Dean,” Sam whines it, shoves off the sink, sneakers squelching as he walks. Two strides and he’s behind Dean, chest pressed so close there’s no separation. Long fingers dig into the flesh at the nape of Dean’s neck. “Dean.” Outside the wind picks up in a gust, wind chimes from the backyard clinking. The house creaks against the weather, settles around them like a living breathing thing. Trapping them.

Strange spells, no doubt his feet won’t cooperate, and Sam’s half-assed efforts to assist are as useful as throwing salt at the witch. 

“What if?” Moving in close, Sam has no say in the matter, his own arousal a vivid purple in his vision, thoughts caught on his zipper and the scrape and the pressure driving him mad. He needs to get to his duffle, needs to cinch the white rope secure around David’s arms and haul all their asses out to the Impala. He can’t. Can’t move. 

Instead, he bucks into Dean’s ass, the denim seam an immediate singe against his dick. Sam is horrified. Sam can’t stop his mouth. “Nothing. It’s the spell; no way am I getting to the bags. I don’t have my cell on me. You?” Dean shakes his head no, so they know they’re unable to reach Stephanie for assistance. Each of them panting, Sam’s half expecting to see drool hit the floor, the air so thick with arousal they’ve all gone feral. He swears a blue streak aloud, shattering the illusion of quiet surrounding them. Plan B, then. Appeasement.

“What’s the secret password, hmm? What’ll it take to get you to release, Sparky? And don’t bullshit me; we are _not_ going to be having a threesome just because you’re a sniveling piece of crap.” David at least has the nerve to look guilty as Sam asks him the questions.

Sam shudders against him, the sensation causing Dean’s own hole to spasm, artificial lust cloying at his sanity. He pinches the witch’s chin, David’s face still sideways, and yanks it to face him. Leaning in, his damp t-shirt leaving a wet mark on the man’s button down, Dean licks a wet stripe up and over perfectly sculpted cheekbones. The taste of David’s skin explodes across his tongue, ratchets up the need, and his lips come to rest on the silky soft lobe of the man’s ear. He bites down, worrying the flesh between his teeth, then laves the teeth marks with his tongue. Each swipe and nick and press seeping more of the spell into his system.

David is pinned but the aggressiveness of the manhandling proves too much, leaving the witch to fight his own defenses. He doesn’t want what happens next, the inevitable fuck, to be on the hunters’ heads. Battling his anxiety, he agrees. “There’s a reversal, but I want a compromise. I’d like your word that you won’t torture me, kill me.”

Sam’s head falls to Dean’s shoulder at the sight before him, his mouth open against the fabric of Dean’s jacket as he rides the crack of his ass, seconds from bending either man over the kitchen table, the urge to sink into tight heat, pound into them until their bruised and battered leaving him nauseous. “Tell us; say it…whatever, David, just do it. Fuckkk.”

There’s a beginning, whispers of a dead language, a pathetic start and not quick enough. The spell releases thread-by-thread, a million knots heady in their minds. The purple swarms in response, Sam’s eyes watering at the bursts of violets and lavenders that fill in his surroundings, and he rips free from his brother. The sucker punch of agreement and lust combined has him fisting the men’s biceps, brutally yanking them through the kitchen and out into the living room. Skin gives under his nails, and the heated slick of blood spurs him on.

David moans into the pain, both eyes closing softly as he lets his hands unscramble from whomever he’s holding onto. He hisses _yes_ , gone to the warped spell slamming through all of them. Dean tries to pull free and trips over a massive leather ottoman, falling, bringing David down to his knees with him. The wood floor of the room vibrates on their impact, Sam spinning to see Dean straddle David’s hips. Indigo swamps him, coloring the mood in the air as his brother knees the witch in the ribs, rolling them in a tangled ball of limbs into the corner of the couch. 

David cries out as he’s battered, gagging at the bile brought up from the shock of pain. Recovering enough to defend himself, he slams his elbow into Dean’s eye, the older hunter relinquishing his hold as he slips to the floor on his back, gritting out a cry of his own. Sam’s collapses on the ottoman, bringing his foot up to push David off his brother’s arched form as Dean makes an awkward punch, clipping David’s nose. There’s a grotesque splatter of blood, velvet red turning the color of magenta as Sam blinks, gagging as well. The lust entwines lazily in the violence, the spell reversal forgotten as Dean shoves his hand down the front of his jeans, boots kicking David until he gets his hand on the witch’s mop of brown hair, pushes his head towards the obscene bulge of his crotch.

And ohhh, how Sam wants it. Wants to burn the visual in his memory, get off on merciless twists of his own hand while David unzips the fly of Dean’s jeans and sucks his brother down until he chokes. He wants to slide home, come in his brother’s spit slick hole while Dean buries his cock in the witch’s throat, strangles him on it. Flashes of bodies sprawled across the living room, colors dripping from every corner, they are the motivation he needs to finally wrench David’s arms behind his back, loop the thick corded rope around delicate wrists, wrap the restraints snugly around a deliciously firm chest. 

A wool area rug cushions Sam’s knees as they wrestle for dominance, softens their struggle. The body under his hands feels exactly as Sam remembers: masculine, finely sculpted and deceptively lithe in all the desired areas. David is an infuriating opponent, not easily manhandled. They find themselves out of breath, both straddled heavily over Dean’s thighs (Dean grunts at the sudden weight on top of him, paws at them, mouth cinched and eyes closed), and they butt up to one another: foreheads touching, lips barely. 

“Finish it. Finish this,” Sam says, thumb crooking into the corner of David’s mouth, seeking wet heat. He’s desperate, sick from it, lifting them off his brother and walking them away. Away from Dean, from the tiny, wounded noises that rile, cause Sam’s hands to twitch, his body to strain.

David’s throat works to swallow around a knot, flesh bruised over his Adam’s apple, as he gasps for air. Latin falls from his lips, chanting the spell into Sam’s mouth, fucked out verbal kiss, as the air in the room plummets. Dean’s own aquamarine, Technicolor hell blinks out of focus, fuzzy pinpricks of light dancing behind his eyelids as the volume of chanting increases, near frantic in its cadence. The room’s air pressure builds, pops, and builds again. There’s a screech in the room a foot or two from where he’s lying. One of the dining room chairs being moved, and he resists opening his eyes to the midnight blue that threatens to engulf him. 

As quickly as it started, it’s finished. The air around them feels as if it’s being squashed, bubbling outward and squeezing until they’re unable to breath. There’s a stale scent in the air, stuck in their non-functioning lungs, until the bubble burst and the air remains stable. The temperature doesn’t warm in increments—it’s immediately as it was. The sounds of the house, creaks of pipes, and the coloring of their vision, all returned to normal.

“Dean.” Sam stands next to him, gargantuan sneakered foot prodding his ribs. Dean’s not a goddamned soccer ball, so he lets out a long breath and jackknifes up into a seated position, pulling himself together and wiping at his eyes. He expects them to ache, to burn and is surprised. No pain, all as it was, aside from the pinched agony of an assured shiner. Sam steps back, bumping into furniture and ankles twisting as he trips on fallen books and candle holders. 

Mentally thanking him, it provides Dean room to stand when he’s not so dizzy he’ll puke and plenty of space to start pummeling the ever-living fuck out of David. He is, after all, going to kill him. “I’m going,” he pauses, “to kill him.” He’s still sitting on the floor though, looking around now that he’s not in the midst of an all-out brawl, taking in the rustic farmhouse charm of the home. 

Sam gives a snort in response, hands up in peace, and blocks one overly restrained witch. “You feel any better?” 

“Question of the night. How relative is better, yeah? On par with being an angel’s bitch or a vamp’s chew toy.” Motivated, he stands and swipes his hands together, clearing them of sweat and tiny bits of grit, scowling. “And that’--that’s better than the almost orgy with Mr. Bad Touch over there.” He gives a sarcastic laugh, cracking his neck from side to side, posture stiff with displeasure. “You, Sam. You, I owe big. All veggie burritos, all the time.” He makes an ‘all clear’ sweeping gesture with his arms, mouth turned down at the corners. “Maybe a little Discovery channel for a few days for making sure that little slice of Hell didn’t jazz up my night.” 

Dean kicks a magazine from underfoot, inaugural edition of _George_ ’s glossy cover--Cindy Crawford dressed as George Washington--mocking him as it snaps in the air and lands in the same spot. Pissed, he gives Cindy’s presidential mug an extra hard kick the second time. “And you, baby daddy, no talking, ever. I can’t even—just, no. Nope. _Blgghhh _. I feel dirty. Need a shower or a tetanus shot.” Arm stretched to the side in the witch’s direction, he drops a pointed, condemning finger as he searches the floor, looking for the Impala’s keys that fell out of his jacket during the scuffle.__

__Sam pays his brother’s temper no mind, small jerk of his head towards David, “Watch him. And—I know, dude, but no messing around. We’re here, and not on the floor fucking, because I promised him no torture or killing. Mostly, no killing. I want to kill him.” He bends, level with David’s face. “No funny business. I know enough, thinking clearly, to keep you on lock-down for weeks. Dean thinks he’s clever, but I know there’s a recipe stashed in his bag that’ll take care of your pesky ‘mortality’ situation. So unless you want to find out what that rope tastes like for however long I see fit, or worse, I’d suggest you behave.”_ _

__David nods once and blinks, wringing his hands tied behind him. He quits as soon as the friction of the water starts to burn. “Sam,” he stops when Sam turns around, already half down the hallway to the bathroom, glare fixed his way. “Si. Nothing, never mind. Of course, yes. No problems.” Sam dismisses him with a shrug while Dean babysits._ _

__Dean can’t talk, too infuriated to say anything that wouldn’t result in the complete decimation of him, Sam, and possibly the entire neighborhood. It’s only after he hears the bathroom faucet running, his own duffle open and Asben’s recipe bag sifting beneath his fingers, that he talks. Not looking at David, eyes on the olive green interior of his bag and Ruby’s knife moved aside so he can find his phone to call Stephanie, Dean gives him the best he can muster. “I promised I wouldn’t go _Taken_ on your ass, but one wrong move from here on out—I get an inkling of a vibe that you’re causing Sam anymore stress, all bets are off.”_ _

__There’s a cough from across the room and without looking, he catches a warm, wet washcloth Sam throws him. After wiping down, he tosses it back and catches a dry one. Sam’s awesome like that. Dean stands, securing the duffle’s shoulder strap so it doesn’t dig in, and heads to the front door._ _

__They don’t talk; no sounds but the ticking of the furnace clicking on, Sam helping David out of the chair and on outside, kicking the door shut and scowling with Dean as it makes David wince. The outside is freezing, weather turning bad, and Dean doesn’t want to drive any longer than he has to in this crap. He tosses their bags in the trunk, closing it with a gentle slam right as Sam covers the top of David’s head beneath a giant mitt, pushing (helping) the witch into the car. Sam’s gentle despite the want not to be, the pinched line of his cheeks down to his jawline evident he’s angry._ _

__They’re on the road in less than two minutes, the Impala revved and flying down the Northway, Dean frazzled enough to take a major interstate. The drive provides a decent amount of time to realize that Stephanie is going to have all three of them by the balls when they return._ _

__+_ _

__Having one wounded male ego in a confined area can be a lot to handle; having three overly masculine, highly sensitive (denying it to their dying days), overgrown men all licking their battle wounds is a completely different animal. Each is cautious of the other, melding into his own corner of Stephanie’s living room. Every few seconds or so, Dean, one hand massaging the nape of his neck while the other holds the room’s white built-in bookshelves up properly, checks on Sam. His brother has managed to fold all of himself into a cozy hideaway section of the room, and is calmly running his toes through the plush pile of the lavender and grey area rug he’s sitting on._ _

__David is nearer the kitchen, arms still bound, body nudged into a tight corner. He stares down Sam as well. Only, he stays focused, roving; as in how he observes the way Sam sits with his back against the wall, popping out his chest. Sam stripped off his layers of shirts, the cotton tee that’s left leaving nothing to the imagination. Tight pecs, swollen but looking for all the world as Sam maybe obsessive in working out his torso. His nipples have to hurt, peaked and obscene through the material as they are, and David is sure that if it weren’t for the evening’s events that he would be circling the young hunter, attempting to woo the boy to his bed for good._ _

__He knows he should be discreet, have more class than to eye-fuck Sam here in his daughter’s home, only his mind and his libido aren’t in cahoots. His dick fills despite his best intentions as he trails over a ten-mile stretch of lean legs. Sam switched to a worn pair of khaki’s, crisscrossing his legs to ease the pressure against a noticeable stomach. That’s ours, we did that, he thinks and squashes the idea as it starts._ _

__Dean caught him once already, and the smirk David can feel he’s wearing thanks to the impossible is likely to have him strung from the balcony and neutered. The sight is handsome though, worth the risk: a beam of early morning sunlight falling across half of the younger hunter’s form, dust motes floating and speckling the golden tone of Sam’s face, accenting the auburn highlights of his hair. When Sam opens his eyes, the irises are almost translucent with the sun shining across him._ _

__David remains quiet and respectful, the sight before him special in a way he didn’t think he’d be alive to see; Sam’s figure re-sculpted, rounding out subtly to accommodate the child he’s growing, and yet entirely masculine. He should be remorseful, and his is, but not at Sam’s condition. He is guilty, blown away that he was treated as civilly as the hunters had. He’d led them to him, and how had he repaid them? The spell he’d cast well over a hundred years ago, he hadn’t thought—hadn’t considered how he had no desire to be hunted, nervous as hell as the Winchesters stood before him._ _

__+_ _

__Stepping off the stairwell, Stephanie rounds the corner, getting an eyeful of the men who have claimed her home. Dean catches her tells, anxious behaviorisms, as she smooths her hands across her belly, up through her hair, sure that she’s not ready for this experience. Her physical strength, her wit and body hijacked and used to its breaking point, all sapped. Stephanie is no medium; she is able to scry and cast protective spells and is, by nature, a healer like her mother and paternal grandmother before her. The spirit guide her father sent to aid them was not in her norm of operating procedure. She moves as if she hurts down to her bones. She’s already spoken her piece on the matter; had explained the concept of the modern day telephone to her father when Dean called on their way back._ _

__Dean smiles, lowers his head at the sight of the stubborn jut of her dimpled chin as she walks into the living room, her narrowed eyes leveled on her father. It angers him that she shares DNA with the man; it makes him restless, the danger and power in the room, and he shuffles his bare toes in the carpet. He presses his elbows back into the corner he’s stationed, cold chills running through him as he’s poorly dressed. All of their laundry is dirty, including socks. None of them have showered, and the reek of magics (an herbal scent that’s overdone, burnt) and beer permeates the air._ _

__Presently in the living room, amidst Stephanie’s personal effects with books lining every square inch of shelving available and fresh flowers in silver and cream vases, the three men aren’t sure what to expect. Not a one of them is tame enough to just stand and take a scolding, and yet, none move. Dean sees nothing else except Sam, as Sam cocks his head to the side and out of the sun to catch a peek. It’s reassurance he wears for Dean, not disgust. It is reassuring to see Sam not be the portrait of a man who’s been let down._ _

__“Fantastic, everyone’s here.” Stephanie sighs, heading into the kitchen after a brief pause. Sounds of dishes clattering and the streaming drizzle of liquid follow in her wake. Light footfalls pad back into the room, and David’s expression is fond, a small grin of appreciation morphing into what seems to be an honest-to-goodness smile. Stephanie carries a tray loaded down with coffee, caffeine free hot tea and buttered biscuits, the creamer in a tiny white porcelain pitcher alongside a matching sugar bowl. She sets the tray down on the coffee table, black hair tumbling forward over her shoulder as she talks to them from underneath the thick mass._ _

__“Eat and drink, it’s going to be a long afternoon, and I want answers.” There’s a small snort from one of the corners of the room, ignored, as she sits stiffly on the couch behind her._ _

__David’s the first to move, the long length of him pushing off the wall and striding over to sit by his daughter. Sam seems curious. He’s seen enough of David to last him a lifetime, but the truth is, Stephanie's home is becoming more and more like their own home. A place to rest their heads, secure, for the first time in their lives. There’s no changing the fact that the man beside her won’t be involved somehow and Sam, he’s stuck on the finer points of sorting that out._ _

__Eventually they all settle to scarf down the food in awkward silence, warmed and stomachs filled, Sam resting easily now in the favored leather recliner. His brother sits near him, straddling a chair brought out from the kitchen so that he may drape his arms over the top, resting his head in the cradle of them. David reclines on the sofa, handsome features screwed up in worry. He sits next to Stephanie, unrestrained, and the mood eventually lifts in an easy start of conversation despite the former tension. Dean begins, forehead down so that he doesn’t see anyone, chin resting on his hands as he sits, picking up on where their phone call left off._ _

__Stephanie listens intently, Kleenex in her hands that she folds and refolds several times over, as Dean explains the evening’s events. David nods, listens. Cringes as his daughter flinches at the details, her pink stained lips parting in an “O” as she cuts her eyes sideways to Sam._ _

__Sam closes his eyes, muscles relaxing further into the tone of Dean’s grumpy retelling. Sleep threatens the edges of his mind, and the slide of his brother’s jeans against the side of the leather recliner stirs him, Dean’s hand covering his on the recliner’s arm providing a new, solid comfort. Stephanie zeros in on where they’re joined, noticing with a slight fascination the effect the move elicits in both brothers. Turning her attention toward her father, she’s still able to catch the newer, soft sound of Sam’s hand carding through Dean’s hair. She imagines a thumb - perhaps - etching along the cotton seamed neck of Dean’s tee, and the near whisper of a circular pattern, the fine hairs at the back of Dean’s neck ruffled as Sam traces freckles there._ _

__The conversation dwindles. There’s no rush to describe the exact nature of last night’s events in all its near threesome glory. Dean holds his tongue, careful to avoid disturbing the solemn atmosphere settling in the room. That remains, until Stephanie takes one last sip of coffee, gently placing the lip-stained mug back on the breakfast tray. She rubs her hands together and yawns, the force of it causing her shoulders to shake, and scoots towards her father, facing him bodily._ _

__His head lowered, held in his hands and arms resting on his legs, David’s large form still shadows hers. This close to one another, it’s easy to discern the subtle mimicry of features: Stephanie’s hair is one shade darker but thick, voluminous as her father’s. Stephanie’s skin tone has a red cast to it, darker than her fathers, but both are equally flawless, the natural tanned hues perfect in a way that no amount of sunning will attain. Their wrists, both delicate. Their shoulders both set in a proud, squared manner, even when knocked down defeated._ _

__Placing two fingers under his chin, Stephanie forces her father’s head up, serious intent etched into the angles of her jaw. “I’m going to speak with Lexi. Perhaps conjure grand-mère for advice. For the record David, I am gravely disturbed with the gross lack of warning you sent via spirit mail. I believe your ability to hold sway over spirit guides to be more powerful than for them to not mention possible rape should I not be there to intervene. Rape, David.” She turns, faces the hallway, the stairwell and the portraits that line the incline. “I don’t know that you’ll ever understand the assurance of trust I gave in your favor. I may be terribly ashamed of you,” her lips give a slight tremble and Sam’s eyes snap open at the faint quiver in her voice, Dean tensing the grip on his hand, “but I’m partly to blame now, aren’t I?_ _

__“This will absolutely _never_ be an issue again, this experimental status you give those who lie in your path. I’ll see that to fruition. Honestly, I don’t even know how to express how awful this is.” Composing herself, she faces the hunters and stands. _ _

__“No bindings for now, but that’s not to mean we won’t be hot on his tail from here on out.” Dean’s only agreement is written across his face, eyes narrowed and down, face drawn. Sam looks on with concern, eyes volleying between Stephanie and her father, but he nods. Stephanie grabs her keys off a middle shelf in the bookcase, grabs her purse off the coat tree on the way to the door. “You’re to stay elsewhere. Stressing Sam and pissing off his brother aren’t options. You’re not to go far, either. The lake house is vacant but in pristine condition. And considering the degree of ancient magics you summoned down on Sam to be in his current state, we’ll no doubt need you as the pregnancy progresses. Maybe - I’ll make that call as I see fit.”_ _

__The last is Stephanie's engraved invitation for David to get the hell out. She’s pulled herself together, lip no longer trembling but Sam makes note of her fidgeting stance, fingers skirting nervously around the buttons of her peacoat. Without a word to either brother, David drops his head back into his hands as his daughter slams the front door behind her. Dean gives a derisive huff of sorts, muscles in his jaw working to keep from laying into the man and Sam pushes up out of the recliner to head upstairs. Away._ _

__“Right. Soo, I’m…” Sam points half-heartedly upstairs, running his hands through his hair. He’s not even sure if he means the bedroom to nap for the next decade or the bathroom to shower._ _

__“Mmm, dibs on the shower.” Following his brother, Dean gives a punishing slap to David’s back as he rounds the sofa. “Try not to do anything witchy. Hate to have to kill you after this special bonding moment, but I’d be willing to give it the old college try.”_ _

__Hands cupping his mouth, David is well aware of his new station in life. The next few days, months, or years weigh on his conscious, ready to face equal parts dreadful and entertaining. He doesn’t bother engaging the older brother for fear of his own survival. Rather, he abandons the safety of the sofa and stretches out kinks from being trussed up, ignoring the heated stares sent his way. “Right,” he says, straightening a framed black and white of Lake George in winter. “Hate me, check. So then, gentlemen. I’ll start on dinner.”_ _


	14. Chapter 14

Time moves strangely for a pregnant person, or so Sam keeps reading. He’s on the record as whole-heartedly agreeing, unsure whether he wants the days and nights to move quicker or to slow the hell down. Regardless, he doesn’t fuss as no one wants to hear the bitching—not when a trip to the clinic is two teen moms and one woman with dubious species impregnation (“Werewolf, Sam. She says she sort of blacked out after he threw her down.”), and that, that’s enough fuel for a century’s worth of nightmares. 

Dean disagrees with Sam’s way of handling the monotony, the stoicism, and busies himself to avoid another verbal fight: runs errands, repairs the wobbly toilet upstairs as well as the loose banister. He saves fine-tuning the Impala for the days that aren’t when Sam shuts down completely: Sam won’t talk, won’t eat, won’t even get out of bed but to use the bathroom. Life isn’t recognizable, the worries now so vastly different and constant in comparison to their dysfunctional normal, the stability of remaining in one town maddening. 

The end result of what’s occurring inside Sam’s body, of producing a living being that he _grew_ , is a concept so huge, so mind boggling as to comprehend that the wildly uneventful stretches of time in-between clinic visits wear him down. Long, never-ending periods where the only thing he has to show for the pregnancy is gas and bloating and a bizarre, new appetite. Sam is uncomfortable in his own skin, creeped-out as he feels intruded upon, invaded. Days upon days where nothing at all happens aside from reading Dr. Asben’s medical journals, researching cases presented in others’ clinic visits, and dealing with a near constant and frightening case of unmanageable hair and splotchy, itchy skin; the boredom plays havoc on his nerves. 

Sam has a hunch the ladies at the clinic aren’t as forthcoming as they should be when describing the complex issue of time and this business of baking a human. In fact, he’s confident that he has a solid thesis in a conspiracy, seeing one through the gossip that runs amok on the mommy-baby websites he visits when he’s stuck in a particularly morose mood. The moms of the world are harboring a secret—a cult perhaps, one the doctors and nurses might be privy to but aren’t saying a word. 

Sam can’t quite put his finger on it, but it’s there in black font, splayed on the white backlit community boards: Moms. What they’re not telling everyone waiting in the wings. Where he’d normally rather be held over an open fire than indulge his secrets with his brother, the urge to spill the truth while out running mundane errands becomes incessant, a roaring need in his ears. Grip on the Impala’s door trim tight, he confesses about the online community boards, that the last pound he gained despite eating nothing but apple slices with cheese flatbread wraps left him feeling like a failure at life and how relieved he was that the women behind the keyboards _understood_. How there’s something they’re not being told about this baby business and it’s probably another big bad. 

Dean’s face striken as if being tested, then he’s breathing out and laughing, hand to his ribs and tears in his eyes, priority mail to Bobby slipping to the asphalt. 

They’re standing outside the lake town’s post office, freezing their asses off, and his mortification at his own traitorous mouth combines with Dean’s outburst and leaves him wound. Tight. The engine of an old Chevy truck pops, vehicle grumbling into the parking spot two cars down; it’s too loud for Sam to think clearly, and there’s a Cornish hen from the Farmer’s Market in the backseat mocking him. It’s innocuous, sitting there in its paper bag, frozen and small and dead, a sad-fucking dinner its final act. Too much, too fucking much, and Sam jams his elbow against the Impala, hoping the sharp pain will distract him from the hormonal avalanche brewing inside him before he waddles over to Dean and beats the ever-living crap out of him.

Dean knows, stops laughing, and eyes him warily on the drive back to Stephanie’s when Sam’s not looking (concern that only fuels Sam’s sudden rage). He tries to ease the strain—and _goddamn, Dean, for seeing the maelstrom before it hit the horizon_ , Sam thinks—creates a work of art for dinner with the bird and an avocado then blows Sam in the shower later in the evening. After, sifting through actual LP’s that Stephanie has stashed in the closet, big orchestra on down to Elvis, Dean asks him about the boards. Doesn’t laugh or crack jokes but he does look concerned. “Jesus, man. I had no idea you’ve been this bored. What the hell are they saying about babies that has you so spooked.” Sam makes note of the careful tip-toe Dean does in not mentioning hormones, feels two inches tall when Dean reminds him that he practically raised Sam. 

“Did a damn good job if I say so myself.” 

“We, uh, talk about environmental issues concerning diapers and the dangers of bottled nipples,” and Sam watches Dean’s face turn sour, tracing the rim of his beer bottle. Sam looks away, tucks an LP of _Puff the Magic Dragon_ back into its album cover, and proceeds to gives examples. “It’s odd because they bring up good points like what if we don’t always go green. There’s a lot to that.” There’s a lot that Sam doesn’t mention: How he’s made himself sick wondering how they’ll afford diapers, formula. How he’s taken to shaking in the shower wondering whether he’ll start lactating, if he’ll want to feed a person from his pecs because he’s certain the curse left no stone unturned. Certain that that little nugget of glory won’t side-step him, and there’s no exit plan anymore. 

He doesn’t tell Dean that the thought of his body harboring more than demon blood, this innocent thing he’s constructing inside the abomination that is a womb, it's flaying his mind. This, the passing of time with nothingness that he has no control over, left to thoughts of a baby. An impossible baby. No matter that Dean curls into him, a partner and brother and caregiver who helps him to keep the universe’s monsters at bay. Sam doesn’t speak of it and lets it wind and twine until he vibrates with anger.

No matter, none of it makes any more sense than before, and Sam has nothing but time.

\+ 

There’s been no baby fluttering, no changes in his appetite, and the only thing that’s changed in the last fifteen days is Sam’s increasing need to pee. He does finally admit his hormones are a little unbalanced when Trish calls to tell him he needs to not drink or eat anything for breakfast the next morning. “Tests we talked about, Sam. Testing for gestational diabetes.” _Fine_ , he thinks and throws his spaghetti dinner out into the backyard. Plate and all, just snatches it up with one hand, the other holding the phone, and chucks it as hard as he can out past the deck. Dean doesn’t let it slide either. Chews slowly as Sam confesses, staring down at his own plate. He calmly puts down his forkful of noodles, tells Sam to take five, back the hell up and remember he’s not the piece of shit that whammied Sam into a fertile myrtle. 

"Got your back, Sam, so stop hiding crap. And quit taking it out on my cooking." And that's that.

Along with accepting the confession (Dean later shoulders past Sam, explaining that it’s not like it was a secret so he could get the hell over any guilt trips) each emotional roller coaster is categorized by Dean into its own color-coded emergency. Sam swallows his pride and begins to relax as much as he can, partly awed at how Dean stands by his color chart regardless of the threats of impending violence upon his head from every single female working for the clinic. Comforted by the normality of bravado as Dean explains to whoever will listen: Perseverance is a show of Winchester willpower.

And no matter the clinician, the response is always a variation of, “If by perseverance, you mean you’re a jackass then sure. Nailed it.” They say it without heat, usually, and spare indulgent pats on the back and reassurances that Dean is doing wonderfully in his support and care with Sam. There are times, though…

Times when Dean is being particularly less than supportive when he sloughs off their eye rolling and their (necessary, _”We, you, have work to do, Winchester”_ ) dismissive stances, spending quality time joshing with Sam. “Can’t let the women bring us down, Sammy.” 

Sam warns him, tells him to stop playing around and watch his back because the women are not kidding when they threaten him to knock it off or else. Warns him and still, Dean does a fist pump following another public declaration of male empowerment—Sam claims he never received that specific copy of his man contract. Doubles over from laughing when Dean finds a salmon in his duffle bag, the bag stuffed in the trunk of his baby after a long visit to the clinic, yelling like he’s been shot.

It’s that same obstinate streak, Dean engaging a patient’s boyfriend on some good old-fashioned ribbing on weight gain in pregnant women, that lands him in hot water. Granted, Dean had his reasons, outing the jackass who was talking behind his partner’s back in the parking lot. No matter, it’s the reason an entire bag of Dean’s favorite cookies is opened, each cookie sandwich filleted of its lard filling only to be reassembled and left for Dean’s routine midnight snack. 

It’s the fourth debacle though, a pointed argument with Sam that leads to an unfortunate incident with urine being tested, where the clinicians have had _enough_. Dean’s last clean pair of jeans take the brunt. Sam’s not sure how they time it considering they’re all at work, but the women make sure every other pair is smack in the middle of the wash cycle and that Dean has to be at the clinic for work. There’s two choices—either wear boxers or pastel pink jeans. Pastel pink and bedazzled. His only clean pair, his favorite pair, has each staff member’s initials sparkling in various shades of rhinestones around the seat and crotch. 

Despite watching the pranks and the good-natured ribbing, Sam slips further into depression. The last few weeks are laced with ugly fights over his own guilt for lack of participation in hunts with his brother—the hurt evident when Dean takes off on yet another road trip with Lexi and Alicia. It’s the hardest for him to handle, the accumulated months of stress lowering his immune system’s resistance combining with the depression, and manifests in a dangerous bout of the flu. Brandy stays by his bedside, mothering with a firm hand (tissues, broth, Tylenol, and Greek philosophy books bound in leather) all the while fielding frantic, worried phone calls from the older brother. The recovery is slow, time fading in and out as the sun peeks through their room's curtains, air filter in the room to cleanse the air as the temperature outside is too chilly. 

Sam knows logically he needs to keep himself out of the game at this point. Hunting isn’t just a physical demand for the healthiest of hunters; it’s a fatality waiting to happen. Has happened. Knowing this should count for something, but Sam is—he’s ill and exhausted part of the time, horny and restless the rest. Surprisingly, it’s not that he’s worried for Dean’s safety. Alicia and Lexi are efficient and deadly, have proven that they’ll have Dean’s back, and Dean is more than capable of handling his business. He doesn’t know what it is about Dean’s leaving that bothers him, can’t pinpoint the source of anger. So, he and Dean fight, half the words tumbling out of his mouth like verbal punches; Dean gives back as good as he gets, refuses to coddle Sam anymore on the subject. Sam wants a productive say in _something_ because even the research is handled by Alicia these days, and once again, there’s another hunt scheduled. 

+

Sam stands in front of the dresser mirror in their room, his legs chopped off in the reflection but it’s the perfect height to showcase his torso. Flannel shirt discarded in a heap on the bed, grey tee shucked up under his armpits, the mirror reflects a foreign figure. Forcing himself to take in the eyeful, contemplating what he sees, Sam runs a hand across the swell of abdomen. He traces up along the lengthy paths of stretch marks, knowing without ever seeing firsthand or hearing stories from dad or Dean that Mary had them as well. A hereditary skin predisposition that suddenly makes his chest ache with need for the comfort of a woman, a mother, he barely knew. Skin that’s been softened by coco butter at the hands of a lover, a brother; skin stretched taut over the body he’s allowing himself to come to terms with.

For a week and a half, this acquainting himself with his own image has been routine while Dean is out on another hunt. A week and a half of Dean calling to check in, calling to simply wish him a good night. The first night he’d called, Dean said he’d put a post-it note, pink for his Samantha, on the motel’s mini-fridge to remind him of home. Sam didn’t complain, and Dean knew damn well to let the joke die right there on his lips.

The cellphone’s chirp pulls him from his reverie. “Eighteen weeks, Sammy. What’s what with news we should know about?”

The question eats at him, the “we” in Dean’s questions. Hell, he knows Lexi and Alicia would chew their own tongues off before admitting they enjoyed hunting with his older brother (and they do enjoy it, quicker case resolutions in kind to Sam’s research and Dean’s brains and brawn), but Dean himself has no such reservations. He gives succinct details, praise for the team. Praise and no issues in leaving Sam stuck in Stephanie’s home and questions from ‘we.’ And the dam, the uncertainty and remnants of depression that are walled behind it, it breaks.

“It’s Sam. Don’t remember your pregnancy facts, Dean? Or is that the three of you are too busy _celebrating_ your latest post-hunt with a few drinks?”

Words that fly out of his mouth nasty and bitter, and Sam stands there, dumbfounded at the static silence across the line. Dean’s pause should give him time to apologize, to remember that Dean isn’t to blame for any of this. It doesn’t. It stokes his frustration. Sam has said worse to his brother; they’ve both been at one another’s throats before, justified or not. This, though—the selfish anger builds up, aimed at the wrong individual, and god help him, Sam doesn’t know how to stop. 

“Sam.” 

“Remembered it this time, Dean. Must not be too drunk; no women distracting you?”

A stilted breath, another pause almost filled by his stupid verbal ambush only, Dean fills the gap. There’s a rustle of paper bags in the background, the squeak of what Sam knows by heart to be a mini-fridge door opening, and when Dean talks, his voice registers as a low warning. “Is there anything you’d like to say to me, Sam?” 

The case isn’t an easy one with more than a few citizens having been torn to shreds by the Nalusa Falaya they’re tracking; the hard edges of the case are steel around Dean’s words of warning. Sam knows good and well, imagines Dean’s thick thumb rubbing circles into his temple, and chooses to completely ignore his better judgment. “You’re not that dense are you, Dean? I am directly implying that your knack of imbibing in beer and women seems to be making you forgetful and a touch stupid.” Sam clamps a hand over his mouth before he spits out more.

The opportunity doesn’t present itself. Not with Dean cursing a blue streak, the phone a good distance from his mouth because Sam can’t make out any of the words. Sam paces out the room and into the hallway at the added texture of female voices, all sharp from one and jagged toned the other, and Dean’s voice whip-cracks across the line. Dean is not playing around. His voice has a grate to it, and the pop of a beer bottle cap sounds too close. It’s a point, a lesson taught long-ago, and Sam—in the bathroom and preparing to retch—braces. “I’m hanging up now, Sam. We will discuss this when I get back.” The line drops, and Sam vomits.

+

The crying jags that take him unaware and for no discernible reason don’t disappear, but the outlandish hormonal tides ease up. The fainting spells lessen as well, now into his 20th week. Sam steps into the bedroom, loose from his shower. Hot forever these days, his showers are lukewarm. It’s enough to ease a few aches in his hips and lower back. Which is why he knows the ruddy color on his cheeks is due to the pregnancy. More blood flow, being overheated—two weeks since his breakdown over the phone—and he’s going through an ‘all’ phase in the all-or-nothing pregnancy list. 

He unties his robe, oblivious to his surroundings in a way that contradicts everything his life has taught him to be thanks to a muddy head, his thoughts foggy and scattered. Not bothering with toweling off his damp hair, he stands in front of a full-length cheval mirror—an antique Stephanie insisted upon—taking in and poking into the girth of his stomach, the flesh stretched and still slightly giving under his prodding. Turning to the side, Sam raises the arm nearest the mirror, stretching it above his head. Like this, he can see a substantial jut of abdomen curving forward and out from the lines of his obliques, and the sheer weight pushing his navel outwards. 

Bare toes scrunching into the shaggy carpet, he’s transfixed by his reflection. Two weeks to examine, scrutinize, accept his depression and work with Stephanie to alleviate the symptoms. He brings his arm down and places his hand on the jutted slope of upper torso to belly, finally a good inch and a half above his navel. His other hand comes up to the same area only off to the far side, along the first noticeably strained muscle there. It’s a lazy slide. His finger traces golden-hued skin that has rarely seen the light of day in over three months; each groove he’s spent years defining by digging graves and hauling his brother’s ass to safety, sparring, and general maintenance—they’re smoother. Almost non-existent.

“Your transverse abs, the girdle-like muscles keeping your stomach flat, those are stretched. Soon, maybe in the third trimester, they’ll give way. Rectus abdominal muscles separating to make room for the additional stretching.”

Sam wants to spin and hide from the embarrassment, mortified at being caught staring and feeling himself up. He turns slowly, also not wanting to hurl and pass out. “You scared the crap out of me, Dean!” He spies himself in the dresser’s mirror as he closes the front of his robe. Modest looks ridiculous on him, he thinks.

If Dean notices, and there’s no way he wouldn’t, he makes no mention of it. Rather, he walks carefully into the room, slowly, a slight limp in his left leg and sits down on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t so much as brush a fiber of hair against Sam, and Sam can’t blame him. Confusion and anger roll off the older brother’s body in waves. Dean traces the comforter’s beige filigree pattern for a few seconds, stops to look up and focus on the outline of Sam’s form. 

“You are, without a doubt, the biggest pain in my ass I have ever had to deal with. You know that, Sam? Nope, don’t answer, and you can give me that look like I kicked your dog all you want, but your attitude lately…dude, you asked for it. You know this, man, that I hate this. You’re the one with the signal to stop _us_ from all the emotional venting, but now, now you’re crossing some lines and getting your signals mixed up. Baggage, Sammy, on the table, laid out right the fuck now.”

Sam’s face is blank; six years ago, hell, last year even, talking about emotional issues would have been unheard of for the two of them. Up until four months ago, they were just working out the new boundaries—old wounds and sacrifices and mistrusting resolved once and for all. His expression turns considerate, no aggression showing even though his insides feel scrambled. Hands up, palms out in a show of surrender, Sam takes a much needed breath and begins. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say, Dean. One minute, I’m fine. The next, you’re leaving, and I want to rip us to shreds. It’s not like the demon blood, not like dealing with the visions. I’d take it all back if I could, what I’ve said to you these past months. Every stupid, over-dramatic word if I could. This isn’t me, this isn’t…Jesus.” Face hung low, Sam toys with a small stone knick-knack in frustration at being tongue-tied. He’d thought about what he wanted to say for the last week and now, now it’s like he’s never had a coherent thought in his life. “There’s only so much meditation and mom-baby yoga video I can do, but I know it’s a choice. My behavior is inexcusable, and I’ll do better. I need you to understand, Dean, need you to screw with my head like you’ve always done and respond to me like you know me and give me a break when I say to stop because I’m sorry, jerk, and I’m trying.”

Dean nods, still focusing on where Sam’s navel would be when he lewdly arches an eyebrow and smirks at Sam’s speech; he reaches out a calloused hand to wrap around the front of Sam’s robe. Slipping his hand inside, he drags his palm to Sam’s backside and grabs the muscled ass-cheek, pulling Sam forward into the vee’d opening of his legs. Sam stumbles forward, stone plunking to the carpet when his hands flap and land on Dean’s shoulders to catch himself. He wants to scream, sudden irritable mood and surprise warring inside when Dean lets go his ass and rubs both hands over to the sides of his stomach’s new curvature. Sam gives in to a hiss when Dean’s fingers outline downward, tracing runes. The noise he makes is too close to a whimper when Dean fingers lower towards his groin and starts talking.

“Hormonal warfare going on in your body, Sammy. Our kid’s placenta is pumping you full of whacked-out chemicals; testosterone’s been drop-kicked by estrogen.” A chaste kiss to Sam’s navel, Dean backs off so that his lips ghost over Sam’s skin. “Progesterone’s like the bouncer, keeps smooth muscles from contracting—like the uterine and esophageal ones—and boom, there’s your heartburn.” Another kiss then, lips lingering, to the skin right below Sam’s navel. “Toss in some cortisol to keep your immune system from ambushing bean and helping body parts mature.” There’s another chaste kiss to the jut of his left hipbone.

Sam shivers hard, barely able to formulate what he wants to ask as his skin prickles from sensation. Dean’s sorely mistaken if he’s playing at Sam being easy. Dean and his ridiculously gorgeous mouth spouting off scientific information that’s not only factual but disturbingly hot. “What the actual hell, Dean? I know all you’ve…did you talk to Lexi about all this?” Annoyance and irritability still play at his nerves, but the emotions wane to the slow caresses Dean’s freely giving. Fingernails feather-light scrape over his pecs and across tight brown peaks; a mouth mumbling into a firmly held hip a statistic on hip accommodation in pregnant women. Sam thinks _okay_ and _yes_ and that he is, in fact, this damn easy. The words and decadent touches loosen him up, so he shifts closer, shins and knees pressed tighter into the side of the bed. 

“Jesus. Feels good, Dean.” Sam sighs, closes his eyes to concentrate on sinking into the feeling. 

“Mmhmm, so back to estrogen, Sam.” Fingerpads toy with the soft hair of his inner thigh, rubbing soothing circles as if Dean’s calming a skittish animal. One hand moves away, and the sound of a button popping undone and the metal snick of a zipper light Sam’s nerves, has his erection tight against his belly as he knows Dean’s getting off on this.

“Dirty talk with medical lingo, Dean? Should I be offended that you’re resorting to kinky stuff so early into this…us?” 

Dean tilts his head to the side, low, so that his chin presses up against the crown of Sam’s dick. The nip he places on the underside of Sam’s stomach makes Sam jerk, hissing and pulling on Dean’s hair to lift him since he’s using teeth. Dean follows the pull, wrinkles of his eyes scrunched in amusement as he places a wet, smacking kiss against the belly button in front of him. “You’re dick says you protest-eth to much there, Sammy, and besides—you’re the one who’s bellied up to Dr. Sexy, sweet cheeks.”

“Please don’t ever say anything cheesy like that again. McSexy is horrifyingly awful, dude. Think I’m scarred for life.” Sam wouldn’t move away for the world, but he lets out a token groan of protest. 

Dean takes a hard swat to Sam’s ass, the palm of his hand landing firm with a snap against one half-exposed mound, robe rucked up to his liking. Sam’s knees try to buckle, the smack enough to make him grit his teeth and the rough palm treatment after making his dick wet.

“I’ll show you scarred.”

“If it means you’re going to whip my ass, sorry. I’m telling you right now that there’s not one solitary, latent, ‘bad boy needs to be spanked,’ bone in my body.” 

Dean shuts him up with a bruising squeeze to the already sore butt cheek. He jiggles the flesh in his hand and cuts off any further protests with a stronger smack. Sam takes it all back, all of it. Dean can beat the tar outta his ass and Sam will love it. Sam figures he’ll die of a heart attack for all the sting does to his libido and then, then Dean starts talking again. 

“Estrogen, the gatekeeper. Pregnant Sam’s hormone central command chief, maintains proper functioning of the placenta,” Dean slides his hand from Sam’s ass to draw a fingertip down the crack of it. Protests to what Dean is saying die a rapid death on the tip of Sam’s tongue when a single fingertip swirls and presses lightly at the center of Sam’s hole.

"Estrogen stimulates bone density and organ maturity,” Still talking and Sam has no idea of how he lost track of time because he doesn’t remember Dean’s mouth lowering. One lick over the crown of him, fingertip gently smoothing along the furl of his hole, and Dean’s hard dick pressed against a thigh Sam has tucked between Dean’s legs, and Sam’s quickly losing his mind. He looks down to the side, can’t see down past his stomach, as Dean wraps a hand around the base of himself, squeezing. Velvet skin stretched tight and silky, and Sam groans deep in his appreciation because Dean’s stops and squeezes the base of himself to keep from coming to soon.

When the pause goes on for a second too long, though, impatience gets the better of him. Sam’s so rarely turned on these days that he has to ride a wave of completely irrational anger for the delay. “For fuck’s sake…you’re torturing yourself.”

A dry push, fingertip breaching his hole and shoved knuckle deep steals Sam’s breath and locks him in place. Dean waits a heartbeat then pushes in further, mumbling “Not stopping, so it’s gonna hurt if you don’t unclench, man,” and a crook in his search as he talks against Sam’s glans, “Right, where was I? So, estrogen. Helps stimulate progesterone which interferes with the lactation process until after the birth.”

Dean spits on Sam’s prick, giving himself a little slick to go down on Sam easily, first smearing the makeshift lube up and down the shaft with one hand. Sam has to remember to bear down as Dean withdraws his finger, spits twice and lines two fingers up to Sam’s rim. He doesn’t shove in, but he nudges with them. No mistake in his attempt, the next nudge has the two fingertips pop past the tight furl, not going further but stilling then twisting. 

Sam feels as if his body is free falling, chest lit up cherry red, near on his tiptoes and his hands clamp onto Dean’s shoulders because he’s pretty sure he’s going to tip forward. He’s going to take his brother out when he lands on him because he won’t be able to move from the growing tingle of pleasure working up his stomach, a quiver of a foreign _something_ (his mind whispers uterus and he dutifully ignores). The tingle tightens then unclenches, and the next roll leaves him blindingly hard against the plump of his brother’s mouth.

“Oxytocin is another, fattening your pecs with milk. If this is…if you follow through like the rest of what your body’s done, you’ll lactate, Sam. After the baby’s born. Even before then, you’ll leak colostrum, and you think I’m a hands on guy now?” There’s a moment of panic that snaps Sam into his sense, too tight as Dean wedges his fingers in further only to still and stretch Sam loose. Twists and nudges forward until his brothers is forcing there to be room, and there’s a finger on that spot inside and one pressed up tight against the walls of his newer channel. White noise in his ears, drowning out the sound of the clock and the furnace clicking on, it battles against the embarrassment. 

Lactating, fuck.

“S’embarrassing, Dean. You’d want that? Seriously?” Panting. Sam’s panting and two seconds from cumming and ready to shrink down to nothing because on a woman, he gets the idea of how producing milk is beautiful and still hot and sexy in a way it might not should be. But on him? On him and with Dean, it blows him away, leaves him speechless.

"Serious as a heart attack after a fatty steak serious. Not going to leave you alone until the baby’s born, and then…Jesus, Sammy, wanna watch you.” Dean’s lashes lower quick, eyes closing like the thought alone is too much to handle the sight of, and he ruts up hard against Sam’s thigh. Head down, Dean licks around the crown of him, tip of his tongue fucking into Sam’s slit and messing around in the beads of pre-cum.

“Want to watch me what, Dean? Breastfeed?” Crazy to hear, Sam’s ears registering the throaty rasp of his own voice, needy and slutty in a way that makes him want to slam forward. Nothing like Dean’s whiskey punched guttural tone, gravel rough. Sam moans because his brain is quite pleased to be on board with the whole fucked up plan; on board with the filth—utterly gorgeous, dirty, wonderful—Dean answers with in return.

“Fuck yeah, Sammy, I’m going to watch you feed the baby. And then, then when the baby’s wrapped tight and sleeping and you’re sensitive and sore, it’s my turn; I’m going to squeeze until you’re dripping wet, lick a path of milk off your stomach and use it to fuck you. All the dirty things I’m going to do with you, to you. Can’t help you feel good without some help. Hey, look at me.”

Sam looks down, down past the baby’s swell, and locks onto Dean’s face. He’s staring back, pupils blown, his brother’s face blushed the same color as both their dicks. The sight triggers something, his balls drawing up quick and his orgasm is a touch away. Dean must catch what’s going on because he stops cold, fists Sam tight around the base of his prick. 

“I said look, dude, not unload.” And there’s the leer, gorgeous lips, and eyes lit up bright, and Sam bucks forward into Dean’s grip. Thinks he might be kind of pathetic and is completely okay with that.

“I’m gonna get you there, damn. Just, I’m gonna suck you off now, but you’re not going to cum, Sammy. Got it? I go first tonight - my reward from you for being such a great listener and putting up with your inner diva revelations. I think I deserve that much, don’t you?” Dean gives the cock in his hand a thorough squeeze, tight enough that he’d be on his knees gagging. 

Sam, he doesn’t so much as yelp, just throws his head back, breathless. “Fuck. Me. Yeah, okay, Dean…you’re right, you deserve it. Take it, whatever you want.” Whines, rattles the bed with his body vibrating. 

“I think I will. Take it all, and if you behave and keep yourself locked down, I’ll let you shoot on my face. You don’t wait then guess what? I’m going to take it out on your ass.” 

“That isn’t helping, Dean.” Sam would like to think he can talk only now his jaw is locked, teeth ground together to keep himself in check because his brother is just the right side of raunchy Sam needs for fucking ever. He hopes Dean still has his mad brother skills, hopes he can read the mumble of words he’s babbling.

Hanging on by a thread, Sam starts to crumble as Dean proceeds to suck him down like a Hoover. Not all the way; he’s relatively new to blow jobs, and it’s going to take practice to be able to deep throat. Sam approves, tries to ram his dick straight down his brother’s throat, and his dick gives a sharp bob of approval concerning the turn of events. Dean gags but works through it, and the spasms in the back of his throat milk him until Sam locks every muscle, chanting out loud, “Don’t cum, don’t cum, just don’t…”

Dean’s hand twists sharp around the crown of his own dick, palm cupping the head over and down; jerking off on a mission, vulgar sounds of violent tugs of hand against prick and balls, and Sam nearly comes unglued when there’s a shout vibrating around the girth of his cock and a sudden hot splash on his forearm. High arcs of milky white, and the last bit of spend hits his arm again, just as thick, just as hot as the first. Sam watches his brother rock through the aftershocks, feels his lips tense and release around his shaft with each spasm. 

Harsh puffs of air and whines, tenor and urgent, Sam couldn’t speak now if he wanted. Dean lets up his grip and pulls off with a ridiculously slurpy ‘pop,’ and that does it, Sam’s need to release and ease the odd sensation in his abdomen is urgent. 

“Know what I think little brother; I think it’s not just the hormones. It’s you being you, can’t change what I’ve known my whole life, dude. And I think that me going off…” Dean’s hand strokes over Sam’s length, spit giving a slip-slide and squelching with just enough friction in the squeeze to set his blood boiling. He hears Dean, understands him; he can’t talk.

“Wha..? Yeah, okay.” 

“…My going on hunts without you, taking Lexi and Alicia, has you wrapped around your own axle. Not used to dealing with me not being there for you and not used to me not dropping everything, you’ve dealt fine with that before. So this, now…had me guessing about you and me. _You_ and _Me_. Wanna know what I figured on, Sammy?” 

“Told you, told you…I can’t figure this out, Dean.” Sam hunches, knows he’s not going to cum until Dean has his say.

Dean’s hand is slow, palming Sam’s balls without paying attention elsewhere, “When I nod, and only then, you can finish. Holy crap, you’re doing so good, love what you do for me, Sam.” A vicious smack to Sam’s exposed bum sends white-hot pain shooting up his spine. Pain so messed up in the pleasure, he fucks forward into air until Dean gets his hand back on him. One of Sam’s hands comes up to flick and pinch a nipple, the other reaching down his hip to his ass, covers Dean’s own as he pinches around the edge of a red handprint.

There’s a movement to Dean’s other hand, a crooked finger pressing and milking Sam’s prostate. He looks up into Sam’s face, expression full of understanding, nods, and says, “You’re jealous.” The words ping off Sam, sting and relief and humiliation of the truth sending little shockwaves straight to his dick right as Dean’s consent registers. Sam has a few seconds to think, ‘well isn’t that a bitch’, before the rolling sensation in his belly cramps and contracts as his release hits, a flushing pulse of orgasm from inside that makes him cry out, surprised. Dean strokes him through even as his secondary release hits, white spend marking the bridge of his nose and lips. 

+

After the clean-ups and the eventual downstairs saunter, an empty house due to a late night emergency at the clinic, the brothers find themselves curled up across from each other. Sam in his favorite recliner, heating pad placed in the dip of his back and set to low for the strain while Dean spreads prone on the couch. There's an ice-cold beer sitting on a sweat-proof coaster over on the coffee table. It’s the perfect arm stretch away, although Dean finally agrees to sit up to drink it rather than hear Sam ramble. Fussing that concerns asphyxiation caused by lying down and drinking.

“I’m jealous.”

“You got a special way with starting conversations, Sam.”

“Yeah, funny. I’m serious; this is way above screwing around with you, Dean. This mess has been bothering me for weeks.”

“Mmhmm. Hear me laughing? Not lying when I say that I can’t stand that side of you, dude. Jealousy and ultimatums, that crap pisses me off, and it gets you all…boiling bunny weird. So.” Dean slaps his hands together, the noise jarring Sam as he sits up straight, protest on his lips that he is _not_ going to maim small, furry creatures a la Glenn Close before Dean cuts him off. “Is it just a flare up from having to watch this fine piece of tail leaving or more serious; me going on these hunts with doc and the mid-wife from hell?”

“Both.” Sam is in boxers and when he shifts in the chair, his bare thighs stick to the material. He’s uncomfortable with the topic; it makes him feel exposed and raw, too open for a brotherly ribbing, “Probably more.” 

“You’ve ten minutes on the clock before I stop my Dr. Phil schtick and you and me,” he points between the both of them, “We’re back to being closed-lipped for at least two whole days, and you have to give me that, Sam, or so help me.”

Sam cracks a smile at his brother’s uncomfortable peace. His stomach gurgles in an odd sensation that feels similar to gas and that, that right there is pure class. It makes him want to throw his hands up in surrender at the grossness that is his bodily functions these days. The sensation is back, a fluttering push and gurgle around his midsection. Right as he’s sure he’s going to have a very indecent moment during this very important conversation, the gurgles stop and he waits but nothing. Odd, he thinks. As does Dean, who’s looking at Sam like he’s lost his mind.

“Right, so I trust you, Dean. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you won’t ever let me down. But this, this relationship and having to trust you in a way…c’mon, Dean. I know the old you, the guy I grew up with. I know the bars and the women and how you still want to settle down despite all the token denials and shady hotel fucks. I don’t know how to organize all that in my heart, and this is not at all coming out the way I want to. 

“So, maybe the problem is time. How it’s being spent away from me, and yeah, it’s selfish and stupid, I get that. I start pacing and thinking about the women that come onto you at the bars, and I just—I don’t know. You know? Like I can’t breathe, and it makes me insane.” 

Sam’s face must be cherry red by now because the heat he feels on his cheeks and nose are nuclear. He can’t look at his brother, this emotional baggage crap, and it’s beyond his scope of conversing with the man he’s grown up with. There’s movement across from him, and the couch cushions sigh from under the pressure of weight.

Dean sits, elbows on knees, fingers hooking together. He doesn’t joke or give Sam hell. Instead, he eyes Sam with the same intense stare he’d give when Sam was little. Back to when Sam’s embarrassment over innocent toddler and pre-teen mistakes lead to emotional tantrums, sputtering out how he was nowhere good enough for his Dean. Patient big brother, love so big in the depths of his eyes—Sam gets it now even though it’s no less humbling. Dean’s jaw is relaxed, not an ounce of anger present, and the acrobatics in Sam’s stomach renew.

“So, I’m going to go with complete honesty here, not sure you’ll enjoy all of it. I figure part of you deserving to know requires me being a dick.” Dean gives his face a good, hard scrub and casts a look sideways as he gives a small side-to-side flex of his neck. “I don’t want anyone else. Do I think I’ll miss being with women, hell, someone I’m not related too? Damn straight I will. And yeah, there will be times I’m going to look, maybe even smile back and nod. For the record, I also plan on keeping an entire spank bank of off-limit tits and warm pussy memories right here,” tap to his forehead, “as well as on the laptop.

“That’s where it ends. All mental, Sam. I’m calling bullshit if you say you won’t be doing the same thing. Maybe with a few fantasies about men and dicks and…you know what, nope, fuck that. We’re talking dick, you got mine. You want pictures for the laptop? I’ll even let you film the master in action.” Dean full on leers, shakes his head up and down in a ‘you know you wanna’ nod. Sam isn’t sure where the creepy fucker gene came from but he’s going to go with blaming John.

“What I won’t be doing is acting out on those ideas. Well, unless I can finally convince you to try on those pair of satin panties I bought you.” Dean barely misses being thunked in the head as Sam chucks a throw pillow at him.

“Off the table, Dean. No one needs to endure that horror.”

“What! C’mon Sam, you shave…you’ll love it.” And Sam, he’s okay now; the end of their conversation screeching to a halt because that’s what they do, and they’ve worked it out. Dean listened, and Sam knows he’ll take it to heart. Only, it’ll have to be after they clean up again because the smirk Dean’s wearing, Sam’s certain they’ll be occupied tonight.

+

“And you haven’t felt anything, Sam? Most pregnant persons describe it as fluttering, like there’s a butterfly loose in their stomach.”

“Strange, really. There’s not another analogy we can think of other than butterflies floating around all lackadaisical through his tummy.” Trisha remains steady, concentrating on the monitor and her hand occupied with operating the wand currently invading Sam. 

Brandy works in the far corner by the exam room’s cabinets, getting out the necessary items for blood work, when she hears Lexi’s analogy. “Butterflies work best, but for you, Sam, let’s go with…gas bubbles at first. If you’ve felt your belly jumping, that’s the baby being extremely active and perhaps, hiccupping.

Sam thinks back to the evening of the jealousy talk; the bizarre feeling in his stomach must have been the baby, and despite currently having a glorified dildo being manipulated inside of him and pressing on his throat from the feel of it, he’s stupid happy. The kind of ‘oh, okay, that’s awesome’ happy that infects everyone around, and Dean must catch on because he finally exhales, shakily.

“Hey, I promise not to bawl when we finally get bean to pose if you promise to stop holding your breath. Seriously, you pass out on me, I’m teasing you for life.” 

Dean’s witty response would like to come forth, but the image he’s seeing on the screen and talking about things moving around inside of his brother are proving a little too weird, even for him. 

“Yikes. Damn, Sam, you okay?” 

“What’re you…? Yeah, I’m fine; it’s you I’m worried about.” 

“This child is a big ball of hyper. Baby hasn’t stopped bouncing and squirming once. Sam, your brother’s worried because he just saw the baby practically launch into orbit.” Trish is having a blast watching the screen, but more so, she wants to ease the discomfort Sam is experiencing no thanks to the transducer. She can’t do that though until she gets the necessary markers out of the way, Lexi over her shoulder looking for any anomaly on the screen.

Brandy is one-step ahead of her, giving Trish a wink as she comes over to stand beside the reclining bed. She pats a scowling Dean, who can barely contain his unease at Sam’s discomfort. He’s unnerved as he so eloquently put it when the screen first showed Sam’s uterus. 

“Holy crap. It’s the thing from Alien. Is that right? That looks not right with the skull and eye sockets staring back.”

Trish tries to ease the legitimate fears by telling him that David didn’t mess up, that what he’s seeing is perfectly normal. She sits in a rolling chair in front of the large ultrasound machine, playing what looks to be rollerball point and click as she zooms in on the womb. 

“Have a good voice on you, Dean? Maybe sing over Sam’s stomach so the baby can hear you?” Before Sam can laugh or holler for help, Dean’s all over that question. 

“Sorry ladies, I only sing to the belly when we’re alone. It’s a magical thing, this voice, and I don’t want to accidentally woo you lovely professionals.” Sam barks out a huge laugh as each woman rolls her eyes.

“No, please don’t encourage him.” Sam has tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.

The baby eventually settles down, and after Lexi gives a thumbs up to what she’s seen, Trish moves the wheeled control and clicks on a few of the keys to get to a different shot of the baby. Her shoulders tremble slightly with excitement, and Brandy, watching with as much enthusiasm as the brothers, doesn’t hold back either. One hand flies up to her face, mouth covered as she _awe_ ’s over the image.

“Okay then, looks like Dean’s going to have some competition in the uninhibited department.”

Sam groans, and Dean’s eyes narrow. It can’t be a good thing; the statement fully loaded because Sam’s brother is a perv and he worries over what could possibly be on the screen for her to say that. He follows Trish’s instruction, watches the small arrowed pointer hover by the baby’s feet, some shadows, and then some straight lines. Tiny lines he wouldn’t have noticed if not pointed out.

“Your baby is on full display right…here. You know what Honey said, want to have that confirmed or denied?” Brandy beams, raises her hands in a defensive wave when Trish admonishes the tell of her friend’s face. She loves finding out the gender; it’s her own little celebration each and every time, and Trish has had to stop her on more than one occasion from blurting the results out. 

“Yes,” in unison. 

Trish watches the youngest Winchester first: his strong jawline rough with stubble, tensed and slanted hazel eyes excited; then the oldest brother, clean-shaven cheeks flushed with what appears to be a lack of concern were it not for the lightening quick glances he throws his sibling. She watches them carefully as she informs that yes, Stephanie was correct and the baby is indeed a girl.

A careful wall comes up for the brothers as Dean idly traces a pattern on the paper covering the exam bed. He’s on autopilot, joshing, “We are so incredibly doomed, Sam.”

Sam stays silent, staring at the screen even after it goes blank, and Brandy is turning the lights back on. The fluorescent bulbs sputter then kick in just as Trish warns and gently pulls out the transvaginal probe. The sensation snaps Sam’s eyes up to the ceiling, leaves him focused. The residual gel is cool now, and it’s disgusting, Trish handing him a large warmed towel to clean himself off. 

“Dean.”

“Yeah, Sam.”

“That was a baby.”

“You’re really re-embracing your Captain Obvious role these days. Yeah, that was a baby. 

Trish and Brandy eye each other and don’t even bother to excuse themselves, walking out and latching the door behind them.

“No, really. The day we talked there was already some pressure and…whatever, but I’m going to have to push an actual human being out of my body.”

“Sam. I, um, I'm here for ya, man, but that is a highly uncomfortable thought path for me to go down.”

“And then you and I are supposed to know what to do with it—to keep.”

“If this is about the home, Sam, we already have that set-up. We stay at Stephanie’s as a home base. Otherwise, she's made no bones about hunting us down like dogs. Please let this be about the home, Sam. I’m not ready to have the ‘girls-have-vaginas, sometimes they push humans out of them’ speech. Dad gave me that speech, and it’s psychologically damaging, Sam.”

“To keep, Dean. This human with the big Alien head, I have to push it out of this,” Sam waves down to his gelled groin in a panic, “and the baby's head is already bigger than the vagina probe thing and that feels like a 2X4 because it’s tight down there. Tight and small, Dean. Very small.”

A noise very similar to a turned-on choke fills the room, and Sam whips his head to the side to glare at the man he’s about to pummel. “Sorry, dude, I’m so sorry. But that’s pretty fucking hot.” Dean flinches as Sam scowls, “With the tight and the small, Sam—c’mon.”

No response, just Sam turning to look back up at the ceiling. Dean fidgets, “The baby didn’t look all that big, just a freaky skull alien with a pot belly that likes to bounce, right?”

“Oh my god. I’m going to give birth, bring a new human home with us, and then let you help raise it. A girl. You’ll be helping me raise a girl. I feel sick.” 

“Sam, deep breaths. I have faith in you. I mean, I have to tell you: I’m glad it’s you and not me with the vagina. No, really, hear me out. Women are amazing and tough. You’re practically a girl, so you’ve got this.”

Sam starts shifting, paper crinkling. “Don’t go to sleep tonight, Dean.”

“Violence never solved anything—Ow! Bitch. How can you move that fast on your back with all that belly and your legs in the air? It’s kind of funny...ow, Sam!”


End file.
